'Yes, I know. He likes to be the one calling.' She wasn't surprised.
'It's tough to find someone with his skill and consistency. Especially someone who delivers and sets up. Can you tell him that?'
'Yes,' Maggie said.
As she pressed End, she noticed she had missed a call: Dr. Tomich.
Brokered body parts. It made sense. And it probably explained the identical cooler Liz Bailey saw outside a funeral home. It didn't, however, explain Vince Coffland's disappearance.
Maggie pressed Return Call.
'Tomich,' he snapped. His clipped manner made his name sound as if it were a swear word.
'Dr. Tomich, it's Maggie O'Dell returning your call.'
'Ah yes. Agent O'Dell.'
Before she could tell him that the parts might be brokered, Tomich surprised her by saying, 'It appears you were correct.'
'Excuse me?'
'After examining the X-rays I discovered a bullet in Mr. Vince Coffland.'
'Are you certain it wasn't shrapnel? I think that's what the metal is in the severed foot.'
'No, no, no. This is a bullet. I went back and extracted it. Looks like a .22 caliber handgun. The trajectory path would suggest that it entered somewhere below the occipital bone and above the cervical vertebrae.'
'In other words he was shot in the back of the head.'
'That would be within the broad range, yes. You understand I am speculating. Without the head and neck I do not have the entrance wound. But from where the bullet was lodged and from the downward path it left in the tissue, I would estimate that the victim may have been bending over when shot.'
Execution style? Maggie kept the thought to herself as she thanked Dr. Tomich and ended the call.
The body parts may have actually been meant for one of AMET's surgical conferences. However, it looked like Piper's connection, Joe the body broker, might also be a killer.
CHAPTER 52
Charlotte Mills packed up the last plastic container and hauled it upstairs. She had secured all her important documents, jewelry, and memorabilia, including photo albums, scrapbooks, and her collection of autographed novels. One container alone held all the newspaper and magazine articles about her husband's 'untimely death,' or as Charlotte called it, his Mafia-style murder.
The federal government had ruled the plane crash an accident, an unfortunate engine failure on the Lear jet that was supposed to deliver him to Tallahassee so he could testify in front of a grand jury. She had warned George months before that turning state's evidence could mean his death. But he insisted it was the right thing to do, his penance for helping 'the son-of-a-bitch' corrupt politician get elected. As a result, the son of a bitch kept his job.
That was fifteen years ago and Charlotte Mills had gotten nowhere in her diligent pursuit of the truth. Five years ago she gave up--or at least, that's what it felt like, when, in fact, she had depleted all of her options. She didn't want to also deplete her financial resources. George would have been furious with her if she had done that. So finally she accepted the life-insurance money, the policy that George had invested in just months before the grand jury convened.
She had already quit her job to work full-time investigating George's murder. It turned out to be way too many wasted hours. When she finally stopped she bought this place on the beach, and now she spent her days walking along the shore collecting shells. And she spent her nights reading all the wonderful novels she hadn't had time for. It wasn't a bad life and she wasn't going to let some hurricane dismantle it.
Charlotte took a long, hot shower, knowing it might be her last for a week. She put on comfy clothes, tied her short gray hair into a stubby ponytail. She checked her list as she placed new batteries in a variety of flashlights. She filled the bathtub, all the sinks, and the washing machine with water. She stuffed extra bottled water into the freezer. The latter was a small trick she'd learned during the last hurricane threat. It meant having ice to keep things cool and water to drink later.
With the windows and patio door boarded up the house was dark, reminding her that she'd need to put the candles and matches in a plastic bag and have them somewhere she could grab when the electricity went off. Same for the extra batteries.
Her master bathroom was the only true inside room and she had set it up as her refuge. The counter was arranged with the necessities: a battery-operated radio, several flashlights, a telephone already plugged into a landline, a cooler filled with sandwiches, her prescription meds, and even a pickax almost too large for her small frame to lift. Everything she would need for a ten- to twelve-hour stay.
She was on her way back upstairs when a knock at the front door stopped her. The sheriff's department had come by earlier. Her neighbors had already left. She checked the peephole. Saw the patch on the man's sleeve and she let out a groan. Was this the county or the federal government's last-ditch effort?
'I already told the sheriff's deputy that I was staying,' she insisted as she opened the door only to the security chain's length.
'Hi, Mrs. Mills,' the young man said with a smile. 'I met you at Mr. B's yesterday. Joe. Joe Black.'
CHAPTER 53
Walter parked the canteen as close to the marina as possible. That's where all the action was this morning. They warned him at the tollbooth that the bridge would be closing at one o'clock. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper in the opposite direction. He realized he probably should have stayed home, found something to occupy his time, but he had everything ready and there was only so much you could prepare. He didn't want to sit at home and wait. There'd be enough waiting while the storm raged on for hours.
The marina was crowded with last-minute boaters trying to tether their boats--big and small--as best as possible. Some were loading their crafts onto trailers. A few brave souls--or stupid, Walter decided--were venturing out into the swell in an attempt to get their boats out of the storm's path.
Tension filled the air along with diesel fumes. Arguments edged close to fistfights. The waiting and watching of the last several days ended with the inevitable realization that Isaac was, indeed, heading directly for them. There was no more predicting. No more hope for a last-minute turn. There was no more escaping. Now it was only a matter of battening down the hatches as best as possible.
Walter parked in a corner of the marina lot where the boaters could see him and he could chat with them. Howard Johnson, the owner of the marina and a deep-sea fishing shop, had invited Walter to set up here anytime he wanted. In exchange Walter kept a special bottle of cognac so at the end of a hard day he and Howard could sip and share stories.
Walter decided that today he'd only stay an hour. He'd serve up whatever he had on board for free until the food or the hour ran out.
At first he didn't pay attention to the panel van that pulled up next to the sidewalk leading to the docks. He noticed the owner struggling with a huge bag, yanking it out of the van then dragging it. Not an unusual scene down here. Walter had seen this type of bag before. Someone had pointed one out, calling it a 'tuna bag.' Fishermen used them for the big catches that didn't fit in a cooler. The bags were tough, huge, waterproof, and insulated. About six feet by three feet it looked like a giant-size tote bag with a washable lining that could be removed.
Walter thought it was a bit odd that someone would be hauling a fish to his boat. Usually it was the other way around. The guy wore a blue baseball cap, shorts, deck shoes, and a khaki button-down shirt with the tails untucked. Walter caught a glimpse of the chevron patch on the shirt sleeve. What the hell was some navy petty officer doing here in his service uniform, dragging a tuna bag? Then Walter recognized the guy.
'Hey, Joe.'
