Pieces of the Puzzle (11 page)

It was about to get ugly. Scott reached back and pulled out the gun casually, as if he was taking a cigarette out of a pack.
He said calmly, “Is she worth dying for?”

The bouncers and the bartender came in swinging. Scott bobbed and weaved but held back from putting a bullet in one of them.
Irritated when a bat buzzed his ear, he fired a shot. The bullet whooshed by one of the bouncers and broke out a window in
the panel van.

The shot and the breaking glass got their attention. They stopped advancing, held their ground. The driver of the van was
saying, “Not my van, not my van.”

Scott reached down slowly with his free hand and took the .22 Beretta out of his boot. It evened the odds and helped him to
keep a cool exterior. He glared at the bartender, said again, “Is she worth dying for?”

The van driver started edging away. He was mumbling, “Me no play that game, me no play that game,” as if it were the lyrics
to one of his songs.

Scott smiled at his right hand then his left. “Belgium and Italy. Ever been there? Old Pietro Beretta did a good thing here,
don’t you think? Not as much power as this—” He brandished the Browning as if it were a prize and cocked the hammer back on
the Beretta. “But does it matter at point-blank range?”

He heard the panel van’s engine start. The band members backed out one by one. The bouncers edged back to their cars and waited.
Then it was only Scott and the bartender.

But just when he thought things were turning in his favor, the van driver stomped on the gas and the van lurched forward,
right at Scott and the bartender. They both had to dive out of the way to avoid being hit. Missing the target, the driver
plowed into the T-bird, but that didn’t stop him. He put the van in reverse, gunned it again.

Scott shot out one of the rear tires just before he jumped out of the way, rolling in the sand. When the van passed him, he
fired two shots, one hitting a front tire. The driver got out of the van and started kicking the tire just as the bartender
came back in with the baseball bat. The aluminum bat careened off the side of the van as Scott ducked. Scott slapped the side
of the bartender’s head with the butt end of the Beretta.

The bartender went down. He put the Beretta to the side of the man’s head, swept the Browning in a wide arc to keep the bouncers
and their bats away. “Back off!” he shouted. “Back off!”

He turned back to the bartender and said coldly, “What’s your name? If I’m going to kill a man, I like to know his name.”

“Screw you!”

He went to rap the bartender’s head again with the butt end of the Beretta but stopped short. “Ten seconds and I pull the
trigger. Look, all I’m asking for right now is your name.”

One of the band members shouted, “I’m on the phone to 91-1. West Palm Beach P.D. is on the way, you asshole!”

Scott glanced in the direction the voice came from, still brandishing the Browning, and then looked back down at the bartender.
“I’m not the one hurting Helen. I’m a friend, and I think she needs me right now more than you know. Your name?”

The bartender stuttered out his name. “Terr-ill. Terrill Johnson.”

Scott started to respond, stopped. “As in Jessica Johnson?”

“As in brother.”

Scott took a step back. They stared each other down for a moment. Scott didn’t say anything. Terrill didn’t say anything.
Finally Scott said, “Where is Helen?”

“I wish I knew.”

“And Jessica?”

Terrill repeated, “I wish I knew.”

“What’s in Palm Bay?”

“My mother, you asshole!”

Scott didn’t have time to ask any more questions. He heard sirens off in the distance.

Terrill said, “They’re going to lock you up for a long time, you sick son of a bitch.”

Scott glared at Terrill as he backed away. The convertible top was down; he jumped in without opening the door. He was pulling
away when he saw the first squad car coming over the hill.

He kept going, didn’t look back.

The pieces were starting to fall into place. This was good.

Palm Bay, Florida
Saturday,

15 January

Behind her eyes she hid the pain of a hard life, Scott grasped at hints of this in her words as she walked him through the
family photo albums and as he asked questions about Jessica and Helen.

“Did Helen say where she was going?”

“Helen and I aren’t exactly conversant. On her rare visits, she doesn’t tell and I don’t ask.” Mom Johnson touched a hand
to her mouth and wavered her head. “Oh, would you look at this, my little seraph going to the prom.”

Scott admired the picture of Jessica
and
Helen. Mom Johnson rocked back and forth.

“Harry always liked Summer Haven, you know. Sure he and Jessica had their differences, but she always was a daddy’s girl.
She visits him every couple of weeks. And Helen, well, she visits every now and again when she’s in trouble.”

“Harry?”

“My husband, Harry.”

“Harry Johnson?” Scott paused to try to think of how to phrase the question correctly. “I thought he passed away?”

“Naw, Harry’s up at Meadow Park. He likes it up there, told you he always liked Summer Haven. If you’re looking for Jessica,
you’ll find her there. That’s for sure.” Mom Johnson turned to the next page of the album, put her hand to her mouth again.
“Would you look at that? Graduation. Jessica was straight A’s, valedictorian. I bet you didn’t know that.”

“—and Helen?”

“Well, Helen was Helen.”

“Is there an address in Summer Haven? That would help out a lot.”

“Naw, when you get to Summer Haven, ask someone how to get to Meadow Park. They’ll tell you. I haven’t been up there in years.
Jessica didn’t come last weekend, you know. I miss my little seraph. You see her, you tell her.”

It was late in the afternoon when he left Mrs. Johnson’s home. He had soaked up as much about Helen and Jessica as he possibly
could. He wanted to get a good feel for their backgrounds and Mrs. Johnson provided that and more. The sisters had grown up
in a stable home. No hints of violence. The family, once affluent, lost nearly everything on Black Monday and what they didn’t
lose, the banks foreclosed on. Jessica was, as far as her mother was concerned, forever polite, always outgoing and always
with a handsome man on her arm. Helen was always unusual and introverted, and as of late, what her mother termed as “quaint
like Uncle Howard.” And Uncle Howard was in a “sanitarium” upstate.

It would take about three hours to drive to Summer Haven. Scott was famished. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, discounting
the cookies and milk Mrs. Johnson had given him and he had obligingly eaten. He stopped at a 7-11 to fill up the car, and
afterward, he bought two frozen burritos and a Big Gulp. He set the timer on a tiny microwave next to the counter to seven
minutes and went to make a phone call. He didn’t know why, but suddenly he remembered Glen. Glen who he hadn’t called since
Tuesday.

He dialed the office first, just in case Glen was still there. He let the phone ring while he stared at the cars racing up
and down Palm Bay Road. Then for a moment, he closed his eyes and saw the face that had been gnawing at the back of his mind
for days. Every time he closed his eyes, every time, he saw her face and all because of a single instant when he had recalled
everything but her face.

The phone ringing in his ear brought him back. He hung up and dialed Glen’s home number. The phone rang and rang, but no one
picked it up. He slammed the phone down and went back into the 7-11 for his burritos.

The sun was setting when he arrived in Summer Haven. He stopped at a gas station and asked for directions to Meadow Park.
The clerk looked at him strangely, then told him, “Up the road a ways, when you see the headstones, you’re looking at Meadow
Park.”

“A cemetery?”

“Meadow Park, right?”

He didn’t answer. He got back into his convertible and drove away. Meadow Park was right up the road. If he had just kept
going without stopping at the gas station, he probably would’ve seen it but never would’ve turned in. He was suddenly curious.
Jessica drove all the way up from Boca Rotan every two weeks to visit a cemetery? There had to be something more.

Meadow Park was a small cemetery with a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean. There was a groundskeeper near the gate. He
was putting the finishing touches on a row of hedges. As Scott drove in, he flagged Scott down. “We close her up at sunset.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes, less if you can help me.”

“No need to hurry, people’s always in a rush, and that’s how they end up here.”

Scott offered a friendly smile. “I’m looking for Harry Johnson’s plot.”

“You looking for Harry Johnson?”

Scott said, “Yes.” The groundskeeper gave him directions and told him he’d keep the gate open until he returned. Harry Johnson’s
grave was before the third bend in the road, atop the second hill, and under a great oak tree, provided he made a right-hand
turn where the groundskeeper told him to, which he did. He parked along the side of the road and climbed to the top of the
hill. Right under the boughs of the great oak tree was Harry Johnson’s tombstone. The plots on either side of him were unoccupied,
and there were fresh flowers on the grave.

He stared out at the ocean for a moment. The view under the darkening sky was breathtaking, even more so toward sunset. He
kneeled down and examined the beautiful collection of summer flowers—fresh-cut summer flowers and not a hint of wilting. He
stayed only long enough to focus his thoughts on the two sisters. Helen and Jessica came to Summer Haven to see more than
a grave, had to.

He thought about Jessica’s credit card bills and the weekend trips up the coast. Three fill-ups. A stop for supper in Palm
Bay. A breakfast, a lunch, and a supper at a tiny restaurant on the outskirts of Summer Haven. Two fill-ups. A stop for brunch
in Palm Bay. What was missing?

He grinned toothily as May’s words echoed in his mind. “Jessica loves those fancy hotels. She’d find an excuse to spend the
night in one just because she had a doctor’s appointment and there was one a mile away.”

Hotel bills. No hotel bills.

Scott got in his car and drove back to the front gate. The groundskeeper was waiting for him. Scott stopped to thank him and
ask if he’d seen anyone bring flowers to Harry’s grave today.

“Speed limit’s five miles-per-hour for a reason.”

“I didn’t know—”“It’s posted.”

“I’m awful sorry. The grounds are beautiful. Do you do all the work yourself?”

“Me and my boy.”

“Then you see just about everyone coming and going?” He took out the picture of Helen and Jessica.

“I like to say hello to most folks. Try to be friendly, you know.”

“Did you see who brought the flowers to Harry’s grave today? They were awful pretty.”

“One of his daughters, I suspect.”

Scott showed him the picture, pointed to Helen. “Was she here today?”

“I don’t need to look at that. They’re both real private types, so I stay out of their way. The youngest, she sits up there
for hours sometimes watching the water. The other one, well I don’t see her much, but I reckon that was her this morning.”

“Do you remember the time?”

“Don’t keep a watch, don’t want to know. Either the sun’s up or it isn’t.”

“When was the last time you saw Jessica Johnson?”

The groundskeeper removed his cap and scratched his head.

“Don’t rightly recall, been a while.”

“Do the Johnsons have relatives in Summer Haven?”

“You ask a lot of questions, you with the police?”

“No, just thought I might find Helen up here, that’s all.”

Scott reached into the back seat and grabbed Helen’s purse. “We’re kind of seeing each other, and well, she left in a huff.
Her purse. I really would’ve liked to return it to her and maybe apologize too.”

“Well young man—” No one had called Scott “young man” in years. “—Either you’re seeing her or you aren’t, there’s no kind
of about it. Check the Orange Tree, I’m headed there for supper myself.”

“That was on the left a ways back?”

“I imagine it was.”

The Orange Tree was the restaurant Jessica frequented when she visited Summer Haven. It was a Mom and Pop place where he was
sure he’d get a good meal, but not the sort of place that would fulfill Mom and Pop’s American dream. The ancient, water-stained
“For Sale By Owner” sign in the front window attested to this.

He sat at the front counter and ordered fried chicken. The meal came with soup, salad and a choice of side dish. He said he’d
like mashed potatoes and gravy. He was the restaurant’s sole occupant, so he figured his rumbling stomach would be filled
in a matter of minutes. This was not the case, and he imagined he could’ve driven back to the KFC in Miami Beach faster. Still,
the spicy fried chicken, a whole chicken, and mashed potatoes made from real potatoes were as good as he expected and certainly
worth the wait.

Scott was licking his fingers when the groundskeeper and a youngster, probably his son, came into the restaurant. He waved.
Scott waved back. The father and son took a table next to a window. As Scott turned back to his plate, he heard the door open
and close. He turned his head toward the door. His eyes went wide and despite the urge to jump from his seat, he remained
seated. He looked down at the plate and leaned on his left hand in an attempt to hide his face.

He heard heels pass by the counter, a chair draw back. He watched out of the corner of his eye and said casually, “Keneke
Kawena, Honolulu Police Department. How’s it going? Still playing detective I see.”

Ken bashed his knees on the table as he jumped up. “This isn’t what you’re thinking.”

“Maybe not, but you might as well join me.”

Ken took a few uneasy steps toward Scott. “I’m not following you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Scott lied. “That’s not what I was thinking at all.”

Ken took a stool next to Scott. “The truth is I was following you. I figured you might have given me the slip when you didn’t
come out, so I decided to come in.”

“Bad choice.” Scott sipped his Coca-Cola, asked the man behind the counter if he’d bring another. “How long you been following
me?”

“Since I saw you’d returned to the hotel, since Wednesday night.”

Scott raised an eyebrow and laughed into his Coca-Cola. He didn’t say that he had returned to the hotel on Monday. Instead
he said, “Since Wednesday night, the whole time, no shit?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you were doing a bang-up job until a few minutes ago.” Scott’s voice changed, the tone became less friendly. “Why you
following me, Ken, and don’t test my patience?”

“I work in the fraud division, remember?”

Scott sighed. “How could I forget? And I suppose you’re going to tell me about the cuckoo’s egg now?”

“It’s a book,” Ken said, as if that would illuminate everything. The man behind the counter hadn’t brought Scott’s bill yet.

Scott took out his wallet and smiled at him. When the man didn’t come over, Scott asked, “Will twenty dollars settle it?”

“Chicken’s eight ninety-five, dollar-fifty for two sodas, tax, tip for my wife—twelve dollars outta cover it.”

Scott gave the man a Hamilton and two Lincolns, and slipped an Andrew Jackson under the plate. Scott grabbed a clean paper
napkin, took out a pen and thought for a moment about what phone number to write down. Ken watched him curiously. Scott wrote
his Baltimore phone number on the napkin and folded it in half. Ken waited expectantly, but Scott stood and walked over to
the groundskeeper. “You see Helen or Jessica, please give this to them. Tell them they can call day or night.”

The groundskeeper said he would. Scott left the restaurant.

Ken followed. Scott walked away from the lights of the restaurant, away from the street lights, and into the darkness of the
parking lot. He heard footsteps not far behind and walked a little faster. Abruptly, he stopped, whirled about and drew his
gun. Ken nearly walked into him. Scott grabbed him by the shirt, stuck his gun in Ken’s ear, and cocked the hammer back.

“You have exactly five seconds to tell me who you really are, and your stupid act isn’t going to work anymore, so don’t try
it.”

“Keneke Kawena—”“Drop the act.”

“It’s the truth. Keneke Kawena is the name on my birth certificate. I work for HPD in the fraud division. I was investigating
an unauthorized user on the Apollo res. system, not the sort of thing we usually do, but fraud is fraud. No matter if it takes
place in the ether or on the streets, fraud is fraud, and computer fraud is what I like to do.”

Scott removed the gun from Ken’s ear. “Keep talking.” “The Information Highway isn’t all miracles, you know. The number of
hijackers in the ether grows exponentially every year, and someone has to track them down.”

“And?”

“It’s what I do best. Unauthorized access simply isn’t enough.

I track down unauthorized users who commit computer fraud. In the case of fraud, we can make a case. There’s two of us who
handle computer fraud. We get no support from anyone and the department spends more on uniform repair than they do on our
budget. We deserve our own section. It’s the same story just about everywhere. No support. No recognition.”

“And?”

“Well, I thought if I cracked a really big case, you know, get some national exposure, we’d get more support and the budget
we deserve. I’ve been looking for a long time, saving up vacation time and sick time—”Scott was losing his patience. He stuck
the gun back in Ken’s ear. “Is there a point?”