Hot rocks, p.26
Hot Rocks, page 26
David refused to move from his position hovering over Bruce. The police relaxed a bit after David showed his medical ID and told them that treating Bruce was more important than their procedures. His exact words were, “Get your hands off me. This man’s dying and if you don’t let me treat him, I’ll see that you and the city are sued into bankruptcy.” That seemed to have a soothing effect on them. After that, he vouched for Bob and me, and the cops said we could get up, but not leave the yard.
The uniforms secured the area, then started with the yellow tape. In the meantime, the EMTs arrived and assisted with Bruce’s care. A few minutes later, they loaded him into the ambulance and roared away with David still hovering over him. That left Bob and me to face the authorities.
Next on the scene were my old buddies, Bannon and Sargent. The thought crossed my mind that they might be out of their jurisdiction, but I decided not to mention it. Even if they had no authority, my shaky position said I should keep my mouth shut. With all the bodies lying around, I didn’t need them challenging me.
More plainclothes joined them, ones with local authority, and the fun really began. Since I was the only person left alive who knew what transpired inside the house, they were most interested in me. It was touch and go for a while as I stammered, stuttered, and stalled, not saying much except my attorney was en route. I believed it. Sly wouldn’t let me down.
Thirty minutes after that, a man and a woman in jeans and T-shirts with pistols on their hips arrived and introduced themselves as FDLE agents. Sounded good to me. At that point, they looked like the cavalry. They told the locals Tomasco’s crimes were statewide, then took over and walked me away from the group. I could see that Bannon and Sargent were not happy with the change and were deep in conversation on their cell phones.
I continued my stall, saying I was waiting for my lawyer and he advised me to say nothing until he arrived. They demanded to know who he was, so I gave them Sly’s card. After advising me they knew he handled civil cases, not criminal, the agents, Montee and Nichols, nodded and agreed to wait. I wanted to ask them why they were there, but decided to save it for Sly. It had to be his doing.
I glanced toward Bannon and Sargent and saw them leaning against their car, uglies all over their faces. I gathered the phone calls had not brought the results they wished.
After another ten to fifteen minutes, Sly’s Mercedes arrived, and he and a man I’d only seen on TV emerged. Salvatore Bercini was one of the top defense lawyers in South Florida. I didn’t want to guess what his hourly rate was, but I was sure thrilled to see him.
sixty-eight
Bercini took charge, which wasn’t difficult since every cop on the scene knew him and his reputation. Part of that reputation was he never attempted to make the police look bad. Without much effort, he backed the authorities off, even the FDLE agents, saying he needed to consult with me and hear my story. He said it in such a positive way even I believed it.
We sat in Sly’s car, and I elaborated on the tale I told Dot I’d use. The first thug, Rivera, Tomasco had called him, burst through the door armed and tried to shoot me. I got off the first shot. Santos killed James and Jamison, following Tomasco’s instructions. Then Santos and Tomasco argued about the diamonds, resulting in Tomasco’s death. When Santos turned his gun on me, Bridge saved the day, only to be shot by Santos. His interruption allowed me an instant to pick up Tomasco’s pistol, and I used it on Santos, leaving me the only person still standing. I emphasized that the real hero of the evening was Bridge. If he hadn’t crashed through the door, I’d be dead, and Santos would be free and on his way to fencing a million dollars or so in diamonds. That was my story, no loose ends for anyone to pick at. I stuck to it through several iterations.
I’m not sure Bercini believed it, but he went along. People in his business always have clients who are innocent. I guess it helps them sleep at night.
I almost felt sorry for the police. They had dead bodies all over the place and no one alive to arrest. Bob and I went to the police station where I made a formal statement of the night’s events—under the supervision of my attorney, of course. Later I learned that Bob did the same thing with Sly beside him without mentioning Dot. He could only talk about what happened outside. The inside story was all mine. After Bruce’s condition stabilized, David joined us at the station house and corroborated Bob’s version, with Sly standing by his side.
In this situation, a little perjury did no harm. My hope was the story would stick, and the police would close the case.
Finally, after what seemed days, but was only a few hours, the police released David, Bob, and me with warnings they’d want to talk with us again. We crawled into David’s car and headed for Boca Raton to deliver Bob. Dot was on her own to get back to her home turf, or wherever she chose to go to grieve.
My curiosity was at a fever pitch about how David, Bob, and the rest had made it to my rescue when I had no idea where Bruce was taking me. I’d watched Lodo scanning his rearview mirror and Bruce and Gerald checking behind us, looking for surveillance.
“Not too difficult,” David said, smirking. “We just applied our PI skills and, voilà, there you were. What? You think—”
I smacked him on the arm. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll … I’ll go to a different doctor the next time I bang my head.” I laughed so he’d know it was a joke. The last thing I wanted was a different doctor feeling me up.
“What do you think, Bob? Does she deserve to know?”
“I suppose,” he said. “Might teach her a whole new technique.”
“All right you,” I said. “I—”
David cut in. “After you sang me your version of By Myself, I—”
“What? I didn’t sing to you.”
“Sure you did,” David said, chuckling. “You know, the lyric goes something like I’ll go my way by myself. That’s what you said, you’d do it alone and didn’t need any help from anybody. With that reverberating in my ears, I called Bob. He agreed you’d be helpless without us. So he brought in Dot and Bridge, and I picked the three of them up. Then we hid out near your place. When you roared away with Bruce, we followed at a discreet distance.
“Bridge was behind the wheel. He said he used to drive for some guys, so I gave him the keys. Since I’d seen Bruce and his henchmen operate, I expected they’d be watching behind them. It was tricky because they kept doubling back and running around the thumb to get to the elbow. There were times when I doubted we would keep him in sight. Fortunately, he had that big white Mercury and traffic was light. It was easy to find you each time we got lost—until the last time.
“We’d have been there sooner, but he shook us off at the last minute. If it hadn’t been for the gunfire in the front yard, we might not have found you again. Bridge was circling in the area where we last saw you when we heard the shootout. Anyway, we rolled up to find Bruce wounded and the other two dead. You know the rest. Bridge headed inside, and Bob, Dot, and I tried to save lives. When we saw Gerald and Lodo were beyond help, Dot took off for the house. Her loyalty to you is admirable.” He smiled. “And that’s the secret of our success. Now it’s your turn. What happened inside the house?”
Before answering, I reflected on Dot. It wasn’t me she swore loyalty to, but the man she loved. And that’s how it should be. But she was tough. She’d led a life of having to be tough. She’d survive.
After a moment, I gave them the police-approved version, ending as we pulled into the parking lot of Bobby’s Bar. At that point in the investigation, I didn’t want anyone to know the full story. Even Dot only knew the last part. Everyone except Tomasco was already dead when she burst into the room. The less they knew, the less they could perjure themselves.
After saying our goodnights to Bob, David and I headed for Coral Lakes. My adrenalin flow had backed down to almost zero, and I was in full letdown mode. But I had no desire to spend the night alone. Even if there had been no David, I didn’t want to sleep with the dreams I expected to have.
“Are you okay?” he said. “Want to stop for a nightcap or something?”
“No. Alcohol is not the high I need now. The or something sounds much better. Are you taking me home …” I asked, hoping the answer was not yes.
“I should,” he said. “Everything my dad ever taught me says you’ll spend your life rushing from catastrophe to chaos to self-destruction until you are no more. I can see many sleepless nights in my future, wondering if you’re all right or lying somewhere bleeding out.” He squeezed my hand. “However, I feel like a moth attracted to a bright light. I don’t want to turn away. Ms. Bowman, I fear you’ve squirmed and squiggled your way behind my clown’s façade.”
He smiled and lay his hand on my thigh. “Besides, my medical training says you should have a full body examination. After what you’ve been through tonight, there may be wounds or injuries you’re not aware of. If not found, multiple problems can occur. Only an experienced doctor can spot and diagnose such things. Thus, we shall go to my place where I can properly scrutinize every inch of your gorgeous body and give you the tender loving care you deserve.”
He waggled his eyebrows.
the end
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Randy Rawls is a retired US Army officer and Department of Defense civilian. He is the multi-published author of the Ace Edwards, Dallas PI series, as well as of short stories in various anthologies and Thorns on Roses, a South Florida thriller. Living in South Florida, where fact and fiction run together, gives him a rich environment in which to harvest plots. He smiles because life is fun.
Author photo by Ronnie Bender.
Rawls, Randy, Hot Rocks
