Blood of Cain

45

By the time we’d crossed the marina in the Zodiac, darkness was creeping over the boats like a dark tide. The smell of sautéed garlic shrimp drifted from the deck of a Grand Banks trawler tied to the dock, while the pulse of reggae, Bob Marley’s One Love came from a houseboat lit with multi-colored Japanese lanterns. We quietly boarded Nick’s boat, St. Michael, keeping low, staying in the shadows, watchful of security cameras and prying eyes, neighbors and news media.

Nick greeted us with a crooked grin, his face still swollen. The swelling around his eye had gone down some. His hand was wrapped in a large, white bandage, his shirt unbuttoned, ribs supported with a flesh-colored binding. He sat on his couch and sipped a micro-brew from a bottle, Max beside him. She jumped off and trotted over to us, tail animated.

Nick lifted his bottle. “Sean, where the hell have you been? Hotdog and I were getting a little worried.”

“Just trying to take care of a little business.”

“Man, looks like all those reporters want to make your business everybody’s business. They’re like gnats around a dock light.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. I decided to stop the meds and replace ‘em with cold beer.” He looked at the bandage on my arm. “What happened to you?”

“Just a scrape. I’m glad he used an icepick rather than a real knife or he’d have cut me to the bone.”

Nick’s eyes widened. He sat up on the couch. “Did you find the guy who did this to me?”

“Yeah, I found him.”

Dave sat down at the three-stool bar and poured a Grey Goose over ice. He sipped and motioned with his head towards the media in the parking lot. “In view of all this national, even international news coverage of, shall we call it, the situation, tell us you didn’t kill the guy.”

“He’s alive, but his motorcycle is dead.” I told them about the chain of events at the Lone Wolf Saloon, and then I let them know what occurred on Carlos Bandini’s bus. Nick listened in pain and disbelief. Dave started his second cocktail in the five minutes it took me to tell them what had happened. I set my Glock on the coffee table and sat in the canvas deck chair.

“Shit,” Nick said, pursing his lips to whistle, but it sounded like he was trying to blow up a balloon. “Sean, I know you saved my life a couple of years back when you pulled those guys off me. Man, we’re square, okay? You didn’t have to walk in a biker bar, by yourself, and kick the shit out that guy and blow up his bike in the parking lot, and do it in front of his BFF’s.” Nick shook his head and took a long pull from the bottle. “I gave up my meds too damn early.”

Dave said, “I made a simple seafood bouillabaisse with some shrimp, redfish, tomatoes, onions, garlic and clams. Nick was shouting the Greek recipe to me at the stove. I’ll get you a bowl and a beer.”

“Thanks.” I scratched Max behind her ears, her attention on Dave in the galley. Then I set her on the floor and she made a beeline to him. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Detective Dan Grant said, “I tried to reach you earlier.”

“You didn’t leave a message.”

“I usually don’t. I wanted to let you know that I’m not sure how the media got wind of the DNA sampling of you, Andrea Logan, and the fact that we’re searching for a sample from Courtney Burke.”

I said nothing. Dave set the bowl of food and a Corona on the marine coffee table in front of me, lifting Max up and carrying her to the bar with him.

Dan said, “The chain of evidence leaves me and goes through a number of people, Sean, including lab techs. You know that. Maybe someone read my report and was looking to make some money by selling the story to the media.”

“That’s inexcusable, Dan. The perp should be found, fired and prosecuted. The leak to the media is placing lives in danger, especially the life of Courtney Burke, the woman the media are all labeling a suspected serial killer.”

“My apologies, Sean, okay? This has never happened in the department before now. It’s only because of this unbelievable media coverage; someone got greedy.”

“And dangerous.”

“Speaking of danger, there was a report of a fight in the parking lot of the Lone Wolf Saloon, a hangout for the Outlaws and other biker types with about the same criminal IQ qualifications. The owner said someone assaulted a customer, no, he beat the living shit out of him. And then pinned him to a wooden deck with an icepick through the hand. Sounds like an eye-for-an-eye kind of retribution. And that wasn’t easy to do since they report the victim is six-six, two-ninety-five. Witnesses describe the perpetrator as a man with a resemblance to you. Whoever this guy was, he blew up the vic’s custom motorcycle, a bike some would kill for.”

“Is the vic pressing charges?”

“No, but if he does, do you have an alibi for your time?”

“I was visiting with Carlos Bandini. You can ask him.”

“Hey, Sean, let’s get something straight. Because you were once a cop, the fact that we have a past together on that psycho federal agent case, I grant you slack and some professional leeway. But you don’t have nine lives. Your law of averages is expiring, pal. And now you have all this shit with your former girlfriend — the wife of a presidential contender … and maybe a biological tie to a girl who could be your daughter. Every man has his breaking point.”

“Can you run a phone number through your system?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Hearing and listening aren’t the same. What’s the number?”

I told him and said, “The area code, eight-one-three, covers Tampa and the surrounding area. Can you pinpoint it with a location, or a name?”

“It depends. People are using everything from throw-away phones to Internet phones. It’s not as easy as it used to be when they had to always go through a carrier. I’ll call you back.”