Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [22]
Jellard’s fist shot in the air, followed by Levinson’s and Jacobson’s. Then they were in a circle, pounding each other’s backs.
“Just like old times,” Sandy gurgled happily. “Now, tell us everything and don’t leave a thing out in the telling. Anyone want another beer?”
“You can sleep here in case either of you have any thoughts of returning to downtown Miami tonight. No drinking and driving on my watch. I have plenty of space,” Kate said.
“You sound like our den mother. We accept your offer and we’ll also take another beer. My throat is going to get dry giving you all the details,” Jellard said.
A light breeze coming in off the ocean stirred the ferns hanging from the rafters of the front porch. The paddle fans whirred softly to match the whispering breeze. Out in the distance, where the sky met the ocean, it was sparkly bright, the tide making its own music as it rushed toward the shore.
“This is like . . . I don’t know, something almost ethereal,” Jacobson said. “My wife would love sitting here on the porch, listening to the ocean and watching the stars. You sure, Kate, that you want to come back into the business? Give up evenings like this?”
Kate thought Roy’s voice sounded a tad too anxious. The spill from the light in the living room bathed him in a golden color, but his features, she thought, were worried. “I don’t have to think twice. This probably isn’t a secret, but I will never make a cook. Pot roast is the only thing I learned how to cook. Since I can’t cook, I’m not going to write a cookbook. At best it was something to say to make myself believe that perhaps I could do it. The bottom line is, I don’t want to do it.”
It was Sandy’s turn, and she stepped up to the plate. “Maybe someday I’ll be ready to teach, but this isn’t the time. I knew that one week into the job. It won’t bother me one little bit to hand in my resignation.”
“Okay, ladies, then here’s the deal. Last August, Kate, when Tyler asked for you to come to Florida, he had a few clues as to what might be going down. He ran with the little he had and the two of you had your . . . altercation and his snitches dove for cover and nothing happened. But the same old crap that was simmering back then has now surfaced a year later. Tom Dolan, an old friend from Homeland Security, flew down here to talk to me yesterday. As much as it pains me to say this, I still have to say it. Tyler’s informants had it right. Something is going to go down in the Keys, Mango Key, to be precise. It’s not drugs either. Dolan thinks it’s human trafficking, bringing in illegals to work for next to nothing, maybe even some prostitution. There’s a huge amount of money involved. Is it dirty money? I have no clue. We all know informants give you just enough, and half of it is make-believe. You have to up the payout or wait till they’re ready to tell you more. And even then, you have to cut through the bullshit.
“There’s a guy who lives right on the beach on Mango Key. He was a homicide detective in Atlanta, and he’s been there eight years. Lives in a house on stilts. We checked him out, tragic background, he lit out and ended up on Mango Key. He writes books and movie scripts. Keeps to himself. He’s the guy Tyler wanted you to babysit, Kate. He had himself convinced, without checking, of course, that Patrick Kelly was the guy his squeals were telling him about. If he had checked, he would have found out some punk kid high on crack shot and killed his wife and two kids. After the funeral, the guy got in his car and ended up here. He spent a couple of years with his snoot in a bottle, then he cleaned up his act. The worst thing you can say about the guy is he’s a recluse. Bought himself a cigarette boat and goes into Miami from time to time. That’s the guy’s life in a nutshell. There simply ain’t no more.
“But down the beach from where he lives in what he calls Tick’s Tree House is another . . . for want of a better word, another house, only it’s not exactly a house. It’s a compound of sorts. Some drug lord