Mortal Dilemma Read online

  “Detective Paul Galis.” The voice still had the traces of a West Virginia twang.

  “Paul, Matt Royal. I need your help.”

  “Name it.”

  “Jock Algren is in the Lower Keys Medical Center under the name Mark Bailey. Somebody shot him. I think he’s in pretty good condition, but he’s dead drunk and he needs a guard on him. Key West PD has been notified and officers are on their way to the hospital. Can you get over there and take charge? I’m on my way down.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. You bringing J.D.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. See you when you get here.”

  “Paul, don’t blow his cover. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Got it.”

  I called my friend Russ Coit. “Jock’s in the hospital in Key West. Can Coit Airways fly J.D. and me down there?”

  “We’ve got a plane leaving at your convenience.”

  “Are you on the island?”

  “No. I’m at Misty Creek. Twelfth hole.”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, but I’ve got to go immediately.”

  “Not a problem. Is Jock okay?”

  “I think so.”

  “The plane will be ready when you get to the airport.”

  Russ was a retired Delta Airlines pilot and owned a six-seat single engine plane that he referred to as Coit Airways. The eight-hour drive to Key West would be reduced to a one-hour flight. I called J.D.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31

  “I THOUGHT THE report on the financial part of this case was very thorough,” Steve Carey said, “but I would’ve thought we needed to backtrack and check all that out again.”

  He and J.D. were sitting in J.D.’s office twenty minutes after leaving the Fortson home. She smiled. “I plan to do exactly that.”

  “He’ll probably find out that you’re replowing that ground. You’re going to need subpoenas and that means that whatever financial institution is involved will let Fortson know you’re looking at him.”

  “Exactly. I want him to be a little nervous. If he thinks he’s under suspicion, he’ll get nervous. If he’s nervous, he might make a mistake.”

  “But you just as much as told him that he’s not under suspicion.”

  “Right. And when he finds out that he is, and that I lied to him, he’ll get even more nervous. If he’s guilty, his mistakes might open a door wide enough for us to walk through and arrest him.”

  “Isn’t it difficult to get subpoenas in Orlando for a murder on Longboat?”

  “It is for a local cop. But it’ll be a snap for the feds. They like investigating financial institutions.”

  “You’re going to get the feds involved? How?”

  “I’m not sure, yet. I’ll think of something.”

  “Okay,” Steve said. “Fortson had plenty of money to hire a hit man, so that gives him the means. His sister was here on the key alone, so that gave him, or his hit man, the opportunity. But I don’t see any motive. He had plenty of money, so why would he need the five mil from Rachel’s life insurance policy?”

  “That’s what we need to find out. Maybe he wasn’t as rich as we think and he needed the money. Maybe his sister knew some bad stuff on him, maybe they hated each other—lots of possibilities. Money, revenge, and jealousy are the most common reasons for murder. I’m betting the money had something to do with this one. Let’s start with the financials.”

  “Okay, boss. What now?”

  “You might as well hit the street. Surely somebody out there is speeding.”

  Steve laughed. “Yeah. I need to get back to the mean streets and do some real police work.”

  “I didn’t know we had mean streets.”

  “Think about Gulf of Mexico Drive at the height of season.”

  “I see your point,” J.D. said. “Steve?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you’re helping out on this one. You’ve got a good head for this stuff. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Thanks, J.D. See you later.”

  J.D. sat in the silence, thinking about Fortson and the man who tried to kill her not twenty-four hours ago. Was the attempt on her life connected to Rachel Fortson’s murder? Had she disturbed a hornet’s nest when she was in Franklin County? She picked up the phone and called the Alachua County sheriff. She got right through.

  “How’re you doing, Detective?”

  “I’m fine,” J.D. said. “Deskbound for a few days until you get finished with your investigation into the shooting.”

  “We’re moving this as quickly as we can. There’s no question that it was a good shoot. Self-defense. We’ve just got to check all the bureaucratic boxes.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate your jumping on it. What can you tell me about the shooter?”

  “His name was Mabry Jackson. He served twenty years on a second-degree murder charge up in Georgia. Got out about two weeks ago. He had a cell phone in his pocket, but it was a burner bought last week at a Walmart in Sanford, just north of Orlando. The only calls were to a pay phone in a rooming house about two blocks from the Walmart.”

  “I didn’t know they still had those.”

  “Rooming houses?”

  “Pay phones.”

  “I think there’re a few left. I asked the Seminole sheriff’s office to check the place out. A detective named Glenn Howell called me back. It seems that the late Mr. Mabry rented a room there. Howell tossed it and found a bank deposit slip. It showed that Mabry had deposited five grand when he opened the account on Monday. The bank officer who opened the account remembered that the initial deposit was cash. Fifty one-hundred-dollar bills. No way to trace it.”

  “What about the minivan he was driving when he tried to kill me?”

  “Stolen from a hotel in Ocala about three hours before the shooting.”

  “And the Camaro?”

  “Nothing. They got clean away.”

  J.D. was quiet for a moment. “Sheriff, I was coming from Apalachicola on Highways 98 and 27. I got onto I-75 just north of Gainesville. How would anybody have known that?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but you were definitely the target. We found a GPS tracker device attached to your car. Whoever was after you must have put it there. We found a thumbprint on it that belongs to a civilian employee of the Franklin County sheriff’s office. He works in the equipment room, so we’re thinking he probably handled it.”

  “He could have handled it when he was putting it on my car.”

  “I thought of that. I’ve got the sheriff up there looking into it. He’s a career lawman and a buddy of mine. He’s pretty pissed that one of his people might be involved in the attempt on a cop’s life.”

  “What does the civilian employee have to say about any of this?”

  “Don’t know. He’s out of pocket. Apparently he’s on a fishing trip. Left yesterday and is due back on Monday. The sheriff will be on him as soon as he gets back.”

  “I keep wondering about something. If they knew where I was, I would think a secondary highway like 98 or 27 would have been a better place for an ambush.”

  “Maybe they thought the Interstate would make for a cleaner getaway.”

  “Probably. At least now I know it wasn’t mistaken identity.”

  “Are you working on anything that could get you killed?” the sheriff asked.

  “Maybe. I’ve got a three-year-old murder case that’s heating up. That’s what I was doing in Franklin County. Maybe I got too close to somebody.”

  “Have you got protection?”

  “Yeah. A nine-millimeter semiautomatic.”

  “I don’t want to suggest that you can’t take care of yourself, but if you were one of my deputies, male or female, I’d have a full-time guard on you.”

  “Yeah. My boss is going to want the same thing as soon as he hears about the GPS tracker.”

  “Take care. I’ll try to push this report through by the end of the day tomorro
w. Get you out of police purgatory.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff. I’ll be talking to you.”

  J.D. hung up and Googled the Seminole County sheriff’s office’s phone number. She called, identified herself, and asked to speak to Detective Howell. She was placed on hold for only a few seconds.

  “This is Detective Howell.”

  “Good afternoon, Detective. This is Detective J. D. Duncan in Longboat Key, Florida.”

  “How’s Matt?”

  That took her by surprise. “What did you say?”

  “I asked about Matt Royal.”

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  The voice on the phone was polite, a bit playful. “No, but we have a mutual friend. Manatee County Detective David Sims. He and I were fraternity brothers in college.”

  “Oh?”

  “When the Alachua County sheriff’s detective asked me to look into the late Mr. Mabry, I was told it had to do with the attempted murder of a Longboat Key police detective. He gave me your name. I called David to see if he could tell me anything about you. I got an earful.” Howell laughed. “All good. He did say that you and your boyfriend Matt Royal and some kind of shady government figure named Jock had dragged him into some interesting situations.”

  J.D. had to laugh. “It’s a small world sometimes.”

  “It is. Needless to say, if there is anything I can do on this end, all you have to do is ask.”

  “I appreciate that, Detective. May I call you Glenn?”

  “Please do. Any friend of Sims’, etcetera.”

  “Were you asked to follow up on Mabry?”

  “Nothing more than what I’ve done. I guess the Alachua sheriff filled you in on that. The bank account and all.”

  “He did. I think the attempt on my life might be tied to a three-year-old murder case here on Longboat Key. A woman named Rachel Fortson was shot to death in her brother’s house on the beach. The crime scene was absolutely clean and we had no leads. The case has just taken up space in a filing cabinet until last weekend when a man up in Franklin County gave a deathbed confession to a sheriff’s deputy that he was the killer and had been paid five thousand dollars to do the deed. I spent three days up there talking to people and was on my way home when the bad guys tried to kill me.”

  “I didn’t know that. Is there anything else I can do here?”

  “Does the name Peter Fortson mean anything to you?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “He was the brother of the murder victim. He owns the house where she was killed. He’s a rich guy, a trust-fund baby who lives in Windermere. I thought he might have made the newspapers for something or other.”

  “Windermere’s full of very rich people. Are you familiar with it?”

  “It’s an Orlando suburb. On the south side. That’s all I know.”

  “You think Fortson was involved in the murder of his sister?”

  “It’s possible,” J.D. said. “He got five million dollars from a life insurance policy and his sister’s share of what appears to be a very large trust fund.”

  “If he had a big trust fund, I wouldn’t think he’d have to murder his sister for money.”

  “He probably didn’t. The detective who worked this case when it happened did a pretty in-depth investigation of that angle, but he didn’t actually get into the bank accounts or books of the trust. He didn’t have a reason to dig that deeply and it might not have been possible anyway.”

  “You’d like to see those books.”

  “I sure would, but I don’t have any way to get to them.”

  “If you do figure out a way, Fortson would probably find out that you’re looking at him.”

  “That’s not a problem. I want him to think I’m looking at him as a suspect. It might concern him enough that he makes a mistake.”

  “Do you think he set up the hit on you?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it was a bit too coincidental for Mabry to have gotten the same amount of cash that the guy in the panhandle got for the hit on Rachel Fortson.”

  “Is there a bank involved as a trustee?”

  “Yes. The Third National in Orlando.”

  “Some years back, I had a case that required me to get a look at some bank records. I talked the U.S. attorney into issuing an investigative subpoena for the records. I think it goes easier if the U.S. attorney, rather than the state attorney, goes after a nationally charted bank. If you talk to the U.S. attorney in Orlando, he may be able to help you out.”

  “Thanks, Glenn. That’s a good idea. I know him. I’ll talk to him about the records. One of our guys is working with me on this, so if you hear from Steve Carey, he’s legit.”

  “Okay. Tell Matt hello for me.”

  J.D. laughed and hung up. She looked up a number on her cell phone directory and dialed it.

  “David Parrish,” the mellifluous voice of the U.S. attorney for the Middle District of Florida answered. His speech carried the light accents of his native Georgia, a honeyed quality that J.D. always found soothing. Probably because it reminded her of her late father, who’d spent his career as an Atlanta cop. “How’s my favorite detective and why are you still hanging out with Matt Royal?”

  J.D. laughed. “I’m fine and I’m trying to find a new man, but it’s difficult. Too bad you’re married. I’m calling to see if you can help me on a case.”

  “You know I will if I can. What’s up?”

  She explained the Fortson case and told him about her need to see the bank’s books on the two trusts, particularly those that cover the time of Rachel’s death. “I’d also like to see what his trust was doing for a year or two before her death and how he’s handled the money since.”

  “Since it’s a murder case, and possibly involves fraud on a federally insured financial institution, I think we can legitimately issue an investigative subpoena without going before a judge for a search warrant. How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He laughed. “It’s too late to do anything today. Banks keep banker’s hours, you know. How would first thing Monday morning work?”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Tell Matt hello.”

  She clicked the off button and was putting the phone back in her pocket when it rang. Matt. “We’re going to Key West. Leaving on Coit Airways as soon as you get home and throw some stuff in a suitcase. Jock’s in the hospital down there. I’ll tell you about it on the way. I need you here as soon as possible.”

  “Leaving now. Pick me up at my condo.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31

  IT WAS NEARING seven o’clock as we started our final approach to Key West International Airport. The sun was sinking into the Gulf and the lights in town were winking on, providing the festive air that defined this little town at the end of the continent. A cruise ship, aglow with colored lights that painted the sea in bright colors, glided out of the port. The small island was alive, day and night, the energy palpable. I could almost feel it as we slipped low over Duval Street on our way to the airport.

  Russ’ wife Patti had joined us for the flight. J.D. sat in the right seat next to Russ, and Patti and I took the seats right behind them. After we had reached cruising altitude, I leaned over the seatbacks in front of me and told them what I knew of Jock’s condition. I told them that the only other thing I knew was that the Key West police were at the hospital and so was a friend of mine who was a Monroe County detective.

  Russ greased the plane onto the runway and taxied to a fixed base operator’s private ramp. “We can stay if you need us,” Patti said.

  “We’ll be fine,” J.D. said. “We’ve got reservations at the Pier House and there’s a rental car waiting for us here.”

  We thanked them for the ride and watched as the little plane took off and disappeared into the darkness. The ride to the hospital was short, less than three miles. The emergency room looked pretty much like every one I’d ever been in. It was full of peo
ple waiting to be seen, most of them shabby looking, their clothes unwashed and hair unkempt. Children sat in their moms’ laps, some sleeping, some crying. A television, tuned to a twenty-four hour cable news channel, was bolted to the wall in a corner of the waiting room, its volume turned low enough that nobody could understand what was being said, but loud enough to be annoying.

  A surly woman sitting at the reception desk glared at me as I approached. “I’m Matt Royal. Would you tell Ms. Rudek I’m here?”

  “What’s this in reference to?”

  “She’ll know.”

  She glared some more, trying, I think, to determine if I was some deranged maniac who went around to hospitals and killed social workers. “Have a seat,” she said.

  I stood there until she picked up the phone and said, “A gentleman named Royal is here to see you.” She stressed the word “gentleman,” like she didn’t think for a minute that it fit me. I smiled at her and took a chair next to J.D.

  In a minute or two, an attractive woman came from the back of the department and introduced herself to me as Tina Rudek. I introduced her to J.D. “Come on back,” she said. “Mr. Bailey is resting easy and Detective Galis is with him.”

  She led us to a treatment room where I found a Key West patrolman sitting by the door. “Mr. Royal?” he asked.

  “I am, and this is Detective J. D. Duncan, Longboat Key PD.” J.D. flashed her badge.

  The cop nodded and opened the door, “Detective Galis is waiting for you.”

  Paul Galis and I had met each other a few years back when I was visiting Key West. Jock had been with me and he and Galis had become friends. A year or so later, Jock saved Paul’s life when a dicey situation that also involved J.D. turned murderous. Galis shook my hand and hugged J.D. “How is he?” I asked.

  “Drunk and shot,” Galis said. “The gunshot is superficial, the drunk took some work.”

  “Do you have any idea what happened?”

  Galis looked at the social worker. “Tina, would you excuse us?”

  She nodded and walked out the door.

  “Key West PD is investigating, but they don’t have a lot to go on. Jock was in a bar on Duval Street, and, according to the bartender, had been there since they opened at nine this morning. The bartender said he was flying low when he got there. He must have been drinking for some time. He didn’t eat anything all day, didn’t talk to anybody, just sat in a corner and sipped scotch. Around three o’clock this afternoon, he fell off his chair and the manager cut him off and told him to leave.”