The Black Palmetto (18 page)

Schuller frowned and leaned back on the sofa. “You’re talking about the man who was stabbed in the parking lot last night.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t give him any private information. Windhaven handles some of the most sensitive cases in the Southeast. Discretion is our code of honor. Who made this accusation?”

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry, unlike this establishment, I don’t divulge information about my clients.”

“But I didn’t do what you are saying. I gave out no information to Mr. Ford.”

Jack slapped the portfolio closed and dropped it on the rug with a thump. He took a deep breath and sighed as he let it out. “Then, tell me, what exactly did you say to the man? My client has threatened to go to the psychiatric board, and he wants me to file a civil suit.”

The big man ran his fingers through his white hair, and his face turned a deeper red. He stood up and said, “Can I get either of you a drink? Scotch or bourbon?”

Jack seemed to consider that for a moment. “Scotch sounds lovely. Straight up is fine.”

Sam said he would have the same.

After a couple of healthy slugs of Scotch, Schuller sat back down and described the conversation he’d had with Charles Ford.

“The attorney said he just needed to confirm something. He said it was critically important, a matter of life and death. He had a recent photograph of a man and wondered if he had been a patient here several years ago. The picture seemed familiar, but I certainly couldn’t put a name to it. Then Mr. Ford described an incident that happened here a long time ago, and I remembered the man. It had been several years, and he had changed a lot, but I was pretty sure it was the same person. I could tell by the eyes.”

“So you confirmed it for Ford?” Jack asked.

“No, I did not. I told him I wouldn’t be able to help him because of privacy concerns. I suppose he took that as an affirmation, because he smiled and left.”

Schuller got up and poured himself another drink.

“Did he leave the photo with you?” Sam asked.

“No, he put it in his pocket.”

After a couple of moments, Jack said, “That doesn’t sound like you violated anybody’s privacy to me.” He turned to Sam. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Just a couple. Did Mr. Ford say how he came to know about this person?”

Schuller eyed Sam with the slightest expression of condescension, his eyes glistening from the scotch. “Yes, he said he worked on Windhaven’s legal team several years ago when the incident occurred that I mentioned earlier.”

“What was the incident?” Sam asked.

The big man glanced at Jack. “I don’t know if I should—”

“This is important,” Jack said, a stern tone to his voice. “I’m willing to make a favorable report to my client and encourage him to drop this action, but please answer the question.”

“Well, I suppose it will be all right, since the man gave me this information, and not the other way around. He said he remembered that the patient had stabbed a nurse in the neck with a ballpoint pen. The nurse survived, but she left her position and sued Windhaven.”

“Do you have a photo of the patient?”

“Oh, no. We never photograph our clientele.”

Sam hadn’t expected that they would, since many of the patients probably were celebrities who avoided cameras on their personal time, especially when checking in for detox.

“Okay, can you describe the man in the photo that Mr. Ford had?”

“Well, he seemed kind of nondescript. As I said, the eyes were what I recognized, and I don’t know how to describe them, other than that they were blue. The man seemed heavier, more mature than I remember, but that’s about all I remember about him. Ah, and he had short hair. The patient had long hair when he was here.” He took another belt of the Scotch, and his eyes narrowed. “Something just occurred to me. If you are who you say, then you would know what this person looks like.”

Jack chimed in. “Oh, believe me, we know our client’s son, but we wonder if he really is the man in the photo, and we wonder why Mr. Ford wanted to know all this, since he is a criminal defense attorney. It’s just a good thing you didn’t say any more than you did.”

They deposited their drinks on the desk, untouched, and walked out the door, leaving a greatly relieved and slightly drunk Dr. Schuller behind. Back in the car, Sam gave Jack directions to Dr. Whitehall’s apartment and took out his phone.

Lora answered with, “Where are you?” Her tone bordered on irritation.

“I’ll be on my way in a few minutes. Any change in the patient’s condition?”

“No, still in a coma.”

“I just thought of something. Ford seemed to think he knew the identity of the killer, but wouldn’t say until he confirmed his suspicions. It occurred to me that he might have had a photograph of the suspect with him when he got stabbed, and maybe that was his method of confirmation.”

“Huh. If he did, the police would have it now, unless the killer took it.”

“Yeah, my thinking exactly. You seemed to be pretty chummy with the detective at the hospital. Why don’t you call and ask him?”

“Chummy?”

“Seemed that way to me. He wasn’t too interested in what I had to say.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot. Get over here pretty soon, though. I need to get back home and get some rest. I’m about to fall asleep here.”

Now that she’d reminded him of how long they had been up, fatigue began to grip the backs of his eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

Jack turned into the parking lot at Whitehall’s apartment and Sam got out.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Upstairs, he knocked and waited. A minute or two passed before the door opened a crack.

“You again.”

“I got someone to check into your case, and you should be getting your license back pretty soon.”

“Okay.” He stared at Sam through rheumy eyes, said, “Thanks,” and started to close the door.

Sam stuck his foot in and stopped it. “I need to talk.”

The man stared again, and then shrugged, as if he didn't have any choice, or didn’t really care one way or the other. After leaning out and scanning the hallway, he swung the door open. Sam went inside and sat on the sofa, Whitehall dropped into his chair. Two empties sat on the table beside his chair. He'd started early.

“So, what is it now?” the Dr. asked.

“Did you get any other visitors talking about the Black Palmetto?

“Yes, I did. And I didn't like it one bit.”

“Who was it?”

“The man who hired and fired me.”

“Senator Blaine?”

Whitehall gave him a nod.

“What did he want?”

The Dr. picked up one of the cans and shook it. “Hold on.” He stepped into the kitchen, returned with a fresh beer, and sat down with a sigh. After a long swallow, he said, “Where was I? Ah, yes, I suppose it doesn't matter now. Blaine had spoken with the people who hired you and wanted to know what had been stolen from my closet at the center in Homestead.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Sure, why not?”

“The flash card?”

The man's eyes widened a fraction. “Yes, how did you know?”

“We found it. It's encrypted, but I'm pretty sure we can break it.”

As if on cue, Sam's phone chirped. He took it out and looked at the display: J.T.

“I need to take this,” he said.

“I figured out what's on the card,” J.T. said when he got on the line. “It's some sort of tracking system, and its range seems to span the globe. I see pulse points with numbers on them in Europe, the Caribbean, and across the U.S.”

“Huh, a tracking system,” Sam repeated, primarily for Whitehall's benefit. “How many points in all?”

“About fifteen.”

“You know what they are?”

“No, but I'm still working on it.”

Sam glanced at Whitehall as he said, “Okay, excellent,” and hung up. He had an idea what the program might be about.

Smiling, Sam gestured with the phone. “The technical person working on the flash card.”

The Dr. rolled his rheumy eyes. “I surmised as much.”

“I just wonder how you accomplished it.”

“Accomplished what?”

“Implanting GPS transmitters in the operatives at the Black Palmetto.”

The Dr. took a deep breath, guzzled the rest of the can of beer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I put them under hypnosis and placed the transmitters under the skin just below the shoulder blade. The incision was so tiny it probably seemed like an insect bite when they awoke.”

“Did you develop the system yourself?” Sam asked, wondering how he might have acquired the skills to do something like that.

“Heavens, no. A defense technologist did all that for me and somehow hooked the system into their network. I just did the medical part.”

The idea made sense. Given the Dr.'s apprehension with the program, this had been his fail-safe device, in case any of the operatives went off the reservation. He would be able to pinpoint their locations, and the Palmetto could send someone to terminate them. The only problem was, he got canned before any of that happened, and nobody else knew about the system. Until now.

Whitehall continued. “Blaine was furious when I told him about it. I might have mentioned the capability at the time, if security hadn't ushered me out like a traitor. The senator wanted terribly to get his hands on that flash card, and I'm not sure why, now that the program has been decommissioned.”

Sam wondered about that himself. Why would Blaine want the card enough to send two thugs with orders to kill to get it?

The Dr. staggered into the kitchen again and Sam waited for him to return. All this talk had been too much for the old guy. Or maybe he just started every day with a six-pack.

When he returned, Sam said, “How can we identify someone on the tracking system? My technician said he just saw pulse points on the screen.”

“It's complicated. Ring him up, and I'll tell him how to do it.”

After getting J.T. on the line and telling what he'd learned, Sam handed the phone to the Dr. Whitehall explained something about a hidden table that cross referenced names with pulse-point numbers.

When he got the phone back, Sam said to J.T., “You have what you need?”

“Yep. I found the table the guy mentioned. Marlon Knox is number six.” He clicked the keyboard a few more moments and said, “The coordinates indicate he's on US-1 below Key Largo, traveling south. Maybe heading back to Iguana Key.”

Knox probably had hung around long enough to see if Ford survived, intending to finish him off if he had to. The cop posted at the ICU might have put the kibosh on that. Sam thanked Whitehall and left.

Back in the car, he told Jack about the tracking system and J.T.’s call. “You want to take a ride to the Keys?”

“Sure. I could give the new car a good blowout.”

Sam called Lora and told her she could go ahead and leave, that Jack was going to take him back to Iguana Key.

“Thanks for letting me know. I could have been gone an hour ago if I’d known that.”

“Sorry. I’ll call you tonight.”

“Don’t bother.” She hung up.

Two hours later, they were well past Marathon, nearing Bahia Honda. Sam spotted Lora’s car in the side mirror. How did she do that? He remembered the look of suspicion she’d given him when she left Jack’s place. Had she followed them from the beginning, to Windhaven, and then to Whitehall’s, and just told him she was at the hospital? She could easily have arranged to meet him in the hospital parking lot, and he wouldn’t have known any difference. Ever the reporter, after the story.

J.T. called to say that Knox had turned off on Big Pine Key and was traveling inland.

“How about Benetti?” Sam asked. “Does he show up on the map? That could be where Knox is headed.”

“Hold on.” A few moments later J.T. said, “Here he is, at a spot on the tip of Big Pine, on the Gulf side. He’s a few miles farther down The Keys from where Knox is heading.”

“Okay, we’ll deal with that later. You think you can intercept Knox from where you are?

“Yeah, I do. I got in the car a half hour ago.”

When they hung up, Sam turned to Jack. “I thought you said something about a blowout. You’re barely breaking the speed limit.”

Jack gave him a cool, sidelong glance, and the BMW surged, pinning Sam's back to the seat.

Sam called Simone and brought her up to date on the tracking system and on following Knox.

“You catch up with Cates?” Sam asked.

“Yes, he’s been all over the place. Now he’s headed up US-1. I'm trailing a safe distance behind his car, about twenty miles north of Iguana Key.”

“Okay, stay with him. He might know something we don't.” He thought about asking if she'd brought her gun and ammo, but decided she’d be insulted if he did.

Chapter Twenty-One

Harpo went to the funeral home tool shed and found the machete. He had used it to clear brush at a cemetery a few months before. In his younger days, he had cut cane with a blade like this one, and was skilled in throwing it at a target.

Using the bench grinder in the corner, he shaped the tip to a sharp point. When he finished, he turned and threw it at the wood door. It spun a couple of times, bounced off, and clattered to the floor. Next try: same result. On the third attempt, the tip found its mark with a satisfying
thud.
He pulled it out and thought he could feel a pulse racing down the handle to his fingers. It would do just fine.

The key for the maroon hearse hung from the wall in the garage. He pushed it into the ignition and fired up the big machine. Sitting there, listening to the engine hum, he thought about what he had to do. The bad dude had killed Alton, and nearly killed him, too. There had to be a reason why he'd done that, and it probably had something to do with the body they were transporting. Probably had killed that poor guy, too. The law did a great job of rousting homeless people, but they stunk in the criminal-catching department. No matter. Harpo planned to put things back on track.

One morning a month or so ago, he had come out of the marina tool shed where he’d slept the night before and had seen the dude getting onto a nice old boat. That’s where he would go first. He put the vehicle into gear and eased it out of the mortuary’s carport and down the drive to the highway. Dr. Eddie Worth belted out a sermon inside Harpo’s head, telling the flock just how hot brimstone would get for sinners who didn’t listen. The program faded as another frequency tried to horn its way in. Harpo tapped his temple with his knuckle and the Dr. returned, loud and clear. A couple minutes later the holy man's voice trailed off to a whisper as he eased into a rendition of “Come Home.” Harpo hummed along with the slow, sad song, and when it ended, a news program came on. He tuned it out, having learned how to do that over the last couple of days. The trip took about an hour, and Harpo arrived to find the cruiser moored at the spot where he'd seen it before. He pulled the hearse into a thicket of mimosa trees, got out, and eased through the brush toward the water, the machete hanging from his hand by his side.