T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 01 - Southern Fatality (12 page)

When Chesterfield arrived with a screech of braking tires, Ox and I were seated at an outdoor table, beneath an opened umbrella. Chesterfield jumped out of the Lexus, leaving it half in the street and half on the sidewalk. A split second later, three men did the same. One of them grabbed Chesterfield by the back of the collar, forcing him to face the other two. The one who had him by the clothes was bald and short and had a gut beneath the suit he wore, but he was built like a tree stump. The other two were young with strong builds and wore jeans and T-shirts covered by blazers. All three were obviously hired muscle. I could see a bulge
in the small of the first one’s back; he had a weapon tucked into his waistband. My hand rested on the Glock in my shoulder holster, ready to draw.

Another outdoor table held some customers, two women. Sensing trouble but not leaving their drinks behind, they rushed to stand against the door of the restaurant and get away from the disturbance. In one fluid motion, Ox moved behind the stocky man in a suit, the one holding Chesterfield, and gave the guy a chop to the side of the neck. Stump dropped to the ground as though his body suddenly lost its bones. He never had a chance to go for his weapon.

The other two lunged at Ox while a staggered Chesterfield stood between them. With his hands on Chesterfield’s shoulders, Ox jammed the heel of his boot into one of the men’s knees at the same instant he threw Chesterfield to the side. The would-be attacker buckled and went down, his left leg jutted at an odd angle. The remaining guy threw a roundhouse punch at Ox’s jaw. Ox ducked beneath the wide arc of the man’s fist, and as he was coming back up, jammed a chop into the man’s throat. He lurched but didn’t drop, so Ox threw a lightning quick combination at the man’s head, ending with a graceful uppercut that landed solidly on the chin. The final impact cracked loudly, sounding like concrete meeting bone.

The thing about watching Ox fight is that you have to watch closely, or you miss it. The entire tangle was over in about three seconds. It began and ended before I had a chance to join in. Not that I was complaining. I’d just gotten a manicure last week, when I thought I was retired.

“I’m feeling a little left out over here,” I joked. Ox grinned, but then I saw his eyes narrow and move to a spot over my left shoulder. Reflexively, I squatted and spun to see a wiry-looking fourth man swinging a piece of pipe toward the space that my
head had just vacated. I shoved my shoulder into his exposed crotch, then clipped him on the back of the neck with a double fist as the momentum of the pipe carried him around. He dropped to the ground with a moan and curled into a fetal position, clutching his groin.

Ox and I scanned the area to see if there were any more of them. There weren’t. The two ladies tentatively returned to their patio table and, sipping their salvaged drinks, took in the scene.

“That’s Hertz,” Chesterfield said, pointing to the wiry one at my feet. Gary Hertz had been his property manager for the Bellington Complex. The one who’d taken him for fifty grand.

We heard the faint sound of sirens. “Let’s roll,” I said, assuming that a bystander or server had dialed 911—We all had better things to do with our time than answer questions for the next hour.

Ox tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the women’s table telling them, “Drinks on me, ladies. Sorry for the intrusion.” He slid behind the wheel of Chesterfield’s Lexus, which still idled by the curb. Shakily, Chesterfield climbed into the passenger seat.

I retrieved the pistol, a Para .38, from Stump’s waistband. Not wasting time to search the other two, I yanked Hertz to his feet and patted him down. He had a pocketknife and a pair of brass knuckles, both of which I tossed into a nearby trash can. I shoved him into the front seat of the car and ran around to jump in the driver’s side. Still on the ground, the other three men were showing some signs of life as we pulled away from the curb, and when we turned the corner, we saw flashing blue lights heading their way.

“Unbelievable,” Bobby said excitedly from the backseat. “Just like on TV!”

“Ah, I’ve seen better,” Spud replied.

During the short drive, Hertz slowly came around and his eyes eventually focused on me. Although we were traveling at forty miles an hour, his hand inched toward the door handle.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I told him. He watched me pull the Glock from my shoulder holster and pass it back to Spud.

“Keep this on him, would you?” I asked.

“For crying out loud,” Spud complained. “Lemme have that other one you picked up. If I have to fire this one, my arm will hurt for a week.”

I pulled the .38 from my pocket and passed it over the seat as well. “Take your pick.”

Looking pale, Hertz removed his hand from the door and slumped wordlessly in the seat.

“Can I have a gun, too? I’ll help watch him,” Bobby said.

“No!” Spud and I said in unison.

“Well, get me the hell back to your place, then. These wet pants are beginning to itch. There was some kind of slimy goo in that retention pond.”

Ox
, Chesterfield, and I sat with Hertz at my kitchen table. Bobby borrowed a pair of my baggy gym pants to replace his wet slacks, and he and Spud were at the Block eating fish sandwiches. Swimming always gave him an appetite, Bobby claimed.

“Tell me again why you and your girls were following Mr. Chesterfield today,” I said.

“Can I have a Coke, or something to drink,” Hertz said miserably. “I don’t feel too good.”

“You’re going to feel a hell of a lot worse if you don’t answer my question.”

“We just wanted a key so I can get my stuff out of the apartment. Bastard had the locks changed while Melinda and I was at a movie.”

Chesterfield nodded his affirmation. “After I was positive about the financials and knew they were stealing. When they found the
locks changed and realized I was onto them, they skipped town. I thought they skipped, anyway.”

“Rich asshole prick,” Hertz spat out, eyes looking bright and jumpy.

“You sure talk a tough game,” Ox said.

“Touch me again and I’ll have you all arrested.”

Ox laughed, an amused sound that was sinister at the same time. If I was Hertz and on the receiving end of that laugh, I’d have been shaking scared. Stupidly, Hertz believed that he had rights in this situation. I grabbed Hertz’s hand, twisted it in a half-spiral, and pressed on a nerve at the back of his wrist. He winced with the excruciating pain and discovered that trying to move made it much worse.

“Lose the attitude,” I told him calmly, “or you’re going to make me angry.”

I didn’t let go of his hand, just waited.

“Look,” he forced out between gritted teeth. “I just wanted him to let me into my unit. I got stuff in there. It’s mine.”

“Yeah?” I released his hand. He pulled it to his chest and cradled it there protectively. “Like the cash you embezzled?”

His eyes darted to Chesterfield and back telling me I’d guessed correctly. There was cash somewhere in the apartment. Chesterfield frowned when I asked what he wanted to do with his ex-manager. Most likely, he wanted to press charges but didn’t want the negative publicity just as his book on real estate investment savvy was hitting the nonfiction market.

“Maybe we should check the apartment,” Ox suggested. “Might find something interesting in there.”

“I already went through it,” Chesterfield said. “Nothing there except furniture and clothes. A television. A billiard table. I’ve called the Salvation Army to pick it all up.”

“Let’s take a look anyway,” I said, trusting Ox’s instincts. I
cuffed Hertz, just to keep him from being annoying, and drove the three of us to the Bellington Complex. Chesterfield followed in his Lexus.

Looking very much like the keen Indian he was with the commanding presence of the colonel he used to be, Ox stood in the middle of the place and took a cursory look around. He nodded to himself and began a search by checking the cabinets beneath a built-in entertainment center. He tapped on the rear panels, checking for hollow spots in the wall. He removed several videos from their cases and examined them. Then he hit the eject button on the VCR. A tape slid out, and after examining it, Ox pulled a stack of bills from inside the hollow plastic shell. He smiled, slowly and without humor. If I were Hertz, I’d have started praying to whichever god I worshipped.

“Ah, screw you all,” Hertz said with venom. Swiftly, Chesterfield moved in and punched him in the gut. It was a well-placed, solid punch that knocked the breath out of Hertz. He doubled over awkwardly, hands still cuffed behind him.

Ox’s eyebrows arched up in surprise. “Nice punch.”

“Thank you,” Chesterfield said, shaking out his hand.

I thumbed through the pile of bills. They were hundreds and there were a lot of them. I passed the stack to Chesterfield. “That’s a piece of what he owes you, anyway.”

After a beat, Chesterfield folded the cash in half and pocketed it.

Ox methodically resumed his exploration of the apartment and ended up in the kitchen. He stood in the center of it for a few minutes, dark-skinned arms folded across his broad chest, eyes closed. If Chesterfield thought it was odd behavior, he didn’t say so. The only noise came from Hertz. He still sucked air in an attempt to regain his breath.

Ox moved to the refrigerator and rummaged through its contents. He did the same with the freezer. Then he squatted and
removed a black panel at the bottom of the unit. He slid out a wide tray that was designed to catch dripping condensation and both Chesterfield and I moved forward to look at the contents it held. Two clear plastic Tupperware containers were packed with miniature baggies of white powder, and several baggies of white sparkly rocks the size of small marbles.

“Cocaine, I’d think,” Ox said. “Maybe some speed cut in.”

Hertz slumped to the kitchen floor with realized defeat.

“What do you know about the children?” I demanded, using my foot to lift Hertz’s head and make him look at me.

Confusion wrinkled his forehead. “What?”

“The Chesterfield kids. A boy and a girl,” I said, using the toe of my boot to keep pressure on the nerve just beneath the soft spot in the underside of his chin. I’d included both of Chesterfield’s kids, just in case Hertz had plans for the girl, too.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A fine layer of sweat popped out from his pale skin, but he appeared to be genuinely baffled. “I seen on the news about that Jared kid missing. But I don’t know nothing about it, I swear.”

I pressed harder against the spot between his chin and Adam’s apple, putting my weight into it, and Hertz yelped in pain.

“I’m supposed to be retired and on my boat, but instead I’m here looking at your scrawny ass,” I said. “On top of that, I’ve had a really long morning, and you’re delaying my lunch.”

His eyes were squeezed shut and he mumbled something incoherent. When he heard the slide action from my Glock as a round slid into the chamber, a wet spot appeared on the front of his jeans and urine slowly spread to make a puddle on the kitchen floor. Luckily for Chesterfield, his ex-manager’s kitchen floor was ceramic tile and would be easy to clean.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hertz repeated, crying.

I looked at Ox. Ox said with surety, “He doesn’t.”

They were two pieces of street scum, but the Hertz couple wasn’t involved with the kidnapping. I called Dirk and he arrived fifteen minutes later with some boys from narcotics in tow. Satisfied that Gary Hertz was going to jail on drug-trafficking charges, Chesterfield kept the matter of the embezzlement to himself. A judge was called to issue a warrant for the arrest of Melinda Hertz.

Chesterfield thanked us, shook Ox’s hand with unconcealed awe, and offered him a wad of cash as payment for his help. Ox declined. Anyone else would have taken the money and justified it as a finder’s fee. Heck, I’d have taken it. After pumping his hand a second time, Chesterfield headed up to his penthouse.

Ox and I returned to the Block and ate an early dinner of fried catfish with homemade slaw that was sweetened with chunks of fresh pineapple, and chased the meal down with a couple of Yuengling lagers.

“You’ve got to find the kid soon, Jersey.” He said exactly what I was already thinking. “July first is only eleven days away. SIPA transfer day.”

I wasn’t yet sure how it all tied in together, but I agreed with him. I had to figure out where Jared was being held and why. Were the abductors motivated by greed, revenge, or something else altogether? And would I get to Chesterfield’s son in time?

Studying Ox’s profile, soaking up his nearness, breathing in his masculine scent … something like gratitude—but more—washed through me.

Ox turned to look into my eyes. “What’s on your mind, Barnes?”

“I’m glad we’re working together one more time. I haven’t changed my mind about retiring, but it makes me sad to think that we won’t have any more adventures together.”

Thumb at my temple, his hand caressed my face in a move that
ended before I had a chance to fully enjoy it. “I have a feeling that there will be many more adventures in your life,” he said.

I thought about that, unsure exactly what he meant. “Well anyway, I know I’ve told you several times before, but I really missed you all those years since basic training. I’m glad you’re back in my life.”

After a beat he said softly, “I’m glad, too.”

“We’re very good together,” I thought aloud.

He turned my hand over, traced his fingers lightly against my palm. “Yes.”

We drank another beer and watched a bevy of boats glide effortlessly up the Cape Fear River.

A week had
passed since Jared’s disappearance and, like a spent hurricane-force storm, the initial media buzz had weakened to lingering gale-force gusts of wind.

The “coordinated effort” of authorities hadn’t produced any solid leads and Lolly told me that having an agent in her home twenty-four hours a day was beginning to get old. When I suggested that she play the good wife and keep the uniforms supplied with sandwiches and soft drinks, she rolled her enormous eyes with what may have been defeat or acceptance. It struck me that she seemed more concerned about the disruption in her life than her missing stepson, but I chalked it up to selfishness. She hadn’t been ready to become a stepmother when she married Chesterfield and the children were just part of the package. For that matter,
both his children were adults so he obviously hadn’t chosen Lolly for her maternal instincts.