Clay had little luck focusing on his work that week. Accomplishing little or nothing at the lab, he drove to the shop shortly after noon. He talked to Taggart and he went to JK's for takeout. He brought back fried clams and French fries with an orange drink for Taggart. He got himself a Coke.

The afternoon dragged. At three Clay left to pick up Dylan.

As soon as he turned into the driveway of the school, he saw his son waiting there with Mr. Burgess, vice principal. It wasn't a good sign. Clay stopped the Buick next to the pair and got out.

What now? He wondered as he went to face the music.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Burgess. What seems to be the problem?"

"Your son is out of control. I suggest you get him under control. He called Mrs. Normandy a bitch. He did it in front of the class, which can't be tolerated. He disrupted his 6th period English class. I'm suspending him for three days. I suggest you sit him down and explain, he'll conduct himself like a gentlemen at all times while in school. Mr. Olson, I expect better from a son of yours. I respect your work but I expect your son to be on his best behavior for what remains of school year."

Mr. Burgess turned on his heels and walked away.

Clay let out a long sigh.

"Get in," Clay said.

"Not if you're going to yell at me. I'll walk," Dylan said standing rigid and defiant.

"When do I yell at you, Dylan?" Clay asked, frustrated by his life.

"There's always a first time," Dylan said, opening the car door.

There was nothing to say. Dylan was beyond the age when he needed to be told that he couldn't disrupt his classes. School would be out in a few days. Dylan's grades were far better than what Clay brought home. His acting out had more to do with his father and less to do with disagreements he had with his English teacher.

They drove to the Conservancy house in silence. Dylan went straight inside.

By the time Clay went in the house, Dylan was in his room.

Mama and Lucy were sitting in the kitchen nibbling on chocolate chip cookies, while drinking tea. When Clay walked in, Mama immediately got up to get Clay a glass of milk to have with the cookies.

"Why the long face. I believe it's longer than when you left this morning," his sister said.

"My kid has been suspended from school. He apparently called Mrs. Normandy the B word in class. Mr. Burgess met me when I came for Dylan. Let's simply say, this hasn't been a good week so far, and it's only Tuesday. How much worse can it get? Please, don't tell me."

"This is the one who doesn't like him reading literature in her class. Why does she think it's called English?" Mama asked, and Mama didn't speak ill of anyone.

"I'm to teach him manners before he's allowed back in school," Clay said. "If I went to the baby factory and picked out a son, I couldn't do better than Dylan. He's smart and considerate. They want me to discipline him and I'm not doing it."

"Dylan is a good kid," Lucy said. "As a teacher, I wouldn't like that behavior in class, but Mrs. Normandy has been tougher on Dylan than is necessary. She should be complimenting his love of literature."

"I know what this is about, and as much difficulty as he's had with Mrs. Normandy, she's not who he's angry at. Dylan is angry about what's being done to Ivan, and I know the feeling."

"Ivan's arrest has hit home," Lucy said. "I can go to talk to Mrs. Normandy. I don't know her well, but she knows who I am."

"No, Luce, she's been on his case all year. My kid is smarter than his teacher. That's not his fault, but he owes her the respect you give to teachers, because they are teachers," Clay said. "I'm not disciplining him for reacting the way most people would react."

"We'll figure it out. Maybe Pop will talk to him. He's good at times like these," Lucy said. "Dylan listens to his Pop."

"Good idea," Mama said. "I'll fill him in when he comes in for dinner. Give him a few minutes to think about it."

"I'm going to Tampa tomorrow. I'm going to try to see Ivan. I got the number of the FBI agent that arrested him. I've been trying to reach him without success. Tomorrow I'll go to the address where Ivan is supposed to be. Harry gave me the address. I'll need you guys to keep Dylan distracted while I'm gone. He won't be going to school. The last thing he needs is to sit and dwell on something that makes no sense to him."

"I just bought two new novels. I'll leave my door open while I'm reading. He always comes in to see what I'm reading," Lucy said.

"I'll bake tomorrow. He loves to sit in the kitchen and wait for my baked goods to come hot out of the oven," Mama said. "That and a glass of milk will keep him occupied for a while."

Dylan stayed upstairs until he was called for dinner. Clay went up to lie down and he heard Dylan moving around in his room.

Dinner was mostly over by the time Pop spoke up. The dinner table was unusually quiet. After placing his knife and fork in his plate, Pop cleared his throat, causing everyone to look up.

"Most excellent, Mother. You always give me something to look forward to when I come in from work."

"I did the gravy," Lucy bragged. "I sliced the bread too. I still can't make bread, but I can slice it."

"Congresswoman, is there no end to your talents?" Pop said.

Lucy laughed.

Pop let the lull set up what he'd decided to say to his grandson. Dylan was distracted, but he knew what was coming. He wouldn't leave the table without hearing about today's misadventure at school.

"Dylan, I hear we ran into some headwinds today at school."

"Yes, sir," Dylan said. "Headwinds. I sailed smack dab into those suckers."

"Clay says, you had a tussle with your English teacher," Pop said. "That is Mrs. Normandy. We've had trouble with her before, if I'm remembering correctly."

Dylan looked at his father.

Clay shrugged.

He wasn't sure how to handle the situation, but Pop always knew what to say to keep from making the incident worse than it was. When he was a kid, Pop didn't elaborate on an offense. He mostly handed out the punishment. Dylan got a more mature approach to trouble. Pop was careful not to intensify matters. He was proud of Dylan. It wouldn't do to upset his uninhibited creativity.

"She gets on my nerves, Pop," Dylan explained, having no defense for bad behavior.

"Yes, she's been doing that since school started. What is it about today that didn't allow you to keep it to yourself? It's not like you to disrupt class. You are the student. She is the teacher. She deserves respect. Not an easy job, teaching. Lucy might confirm that."

"I loved all my students. They made teaching a joy," Lucy said.

"I know. She started it. She called me out for reading in class," Dylan said. "She bores me, Pop. I try to make good use of my time. Why can't she leave me alone. I can't help it if she's boring. I hand my work in on time and I've never gotten a grade lower than a B in her class and I've been reading in her class all year."

"How rude. Reading in English class?" Lucy said. "I hope it's a good book."

"I hear every word she says, but I've got this really great book by Kipling," Dylan said. "She called me Little Einstein again. I hate that. I'm not little. I called her something I'd rather not repeat in front of Mama. I was wrong. I know it was wrong. It just came out."

"You're reading The Man Who Would Be King? I haven't finished reading that yet, Dylan," Lucy objected.

"I know. You read it in bed at night. I read it in English during 6th period. I put it back when I bring it home from school," Dylan said.

"Are you going to tell me why today, instead of all the other days she's called you Little Einstein?" Pop asked. "If I'm not mistaken, there's only a few days of school left. Why not simply let it go?"

"Only a few days of school left, Pop. I didn't have much time left. I figured today was as good as any," Dylan answered in a flourish.

Pop tried to stifle his laughter, but what the hell, there was only a few days left. Now, Dylan would spend half those days at home.

Everyone laughed when Pop laughed. It undid the solemnity Pop was going for but there was no discipline at the end of his lecture.

Once Pop regained control of the situation, he said, "When you return to school, you'll say you're sorry to Mrs. Normandy. Not because you mean it, or because you owe her an apology, you say you're sorry to clear the air between you. She is your teacher, Dylan. Anarchy in the classroom isn't a good idea, no matter how boring the teacher is. You need to apologize in front of the same kids you used that word in front of."

"Yes, Sir," Dylan said, already knowing he intended to apologize.

In Tampa on Tuesday afternoon, Ivan was removed from his room and walked across the facility where he'd been taken when he first arrived, and before he'd seen the room he'd be staying in.

This was the first of many trips he'd make to the small room with a metal table with a metal chair on each side of it. A rather large man in what could pass for a guard's uniform, silently escorted him, after unlocking the door to his room.

Ivan expected to be handcuffed and put in leg chairs, which was how the FBI agents transported him to Tampa. They stopped at an office in Tampa, where he was turned over to federal marshals.

It was the marshals who took him to where he ended up. His treatment changed after the FBI handed him over. He was placed in the back of another government type sedan.

The FBI kept the handcuffs and leg chains.

On the second day, the guard didn't talk to him while they walked. Ivan had nothing to say. Once he was put in the small room, he sat in one of the two chairs and waited.

He didn't try the door. That would be foolish. The door would naturally be locked. Ivan had seen enough prison movies to know that. He didn't understand where the handcuffs went. He was expecting a good cop and a bad cop, but one would need to stand, unless they made him stand.

The first few times Ivan made this routine trip to the little room, the guard said, "come with me," once he unlocked his door.

Once they reached the little room, he said, "Wait here," closing the door behind Ivan, once he stepped inside.

Ivan realized he was cut off from everything he knew. These people could do anything they wanted to him, and he was powerless to do a thing about it. He'd yet to be told he was being charged with anything. He hadn't seen a judge, and he hadn't been fingerprinted and no mug shot had been taken.

It reminded him of the time when he was taken into custody by rather angry men who didn't like him at all. That was in Southeast Asia. They were Americans, or they spoke American English without an accent. They didn't read him his rights either, although he wasn't in the US. No one mentioned him needing an attorney. He felt as though he was in limbo and he felt the same way now. Originally, they told him he was being arrested for attempting to illegally enter a war zone. He took their word for it without being sure that was a thing.

The conditions in Southeast Asia weren't conducive to support life. As he weakened and began hallucinating inside the tiger cage he couldn't stand up in. About the time he realized he was dying, they took him out of the tiny cage and let him take a shower, gave him clean clothes, and fed him more than the one bowl of rice a day.

This was way better than that. Being isolated and removed from the place where he lived was disorienting enough. The last time, when they put a contract in front of him and said, 'Sign here,' he'd signed without hesitating. He'd have done anything to stay free of the tiger cage. He gave those people five years of his life.

It's the only experience in his life that compared to this one in any way. As he waited, he noticed there were bolts on the floor securing fixtures where chains could be secured. The same kind of fixture was bolted to the top of the table on the side where he sat. They were handy for securing handcuffs and leg chains.

If he didn't cooperate, would he go back into constraints? Were they there as a warning things could be a lot worse. He had no idea what time it was, or even if it was daylight or dark. He'd slept fitfully for a few hours and he assumed he woke up on Tuesday morning.

The sleep had been fitful and the food was left uneaten. Ivan had no appetite. He had no feeling that food would be welcome. He'd seen the movies with the guards escorting prisoners. They were always shackled, even when there was nowhere for them to run.

Ivan assumed shackles were as much to break a man's spirit as they were a precaution. There was no doubt a few men who were psychotically violent and needed to be chained at all times, but the majority of men in custody weren't going to resist.

The idea you locked someone in a cage, treated them like wild animals, in an effort to civilize them, so they can be returned to society, was as devoid of reason as anything men did. Men who grew to be violently psychotic probably started with being locked in a cage.

Ivan didn't doubt he was still thinking rationally, but he didn't know how long it would take, with no contact with the real world, for him to begin to doubt his own sanity. He was a captive and subject to whatever treatment his jailers felt like issuing him. He wouldn't resist, but he did want to know what was going on.

The same large guard fetched him and took him back to the room where he spent the night.

He heard the door open behind him and he didn't turn to see who it was. He'd find out soon enough and a man in a wrinkled suit moved to the other seat that faced Ivan and the door. He had a cigarette between his lips, and he reached on the floor beside his chair to retrieve an ash tray he set on the table beside him.

He took a long drag, seeming to get immense enjoyment from the deadly smoke drawn deep into his lungs, and he butted what was left of his smoke.

He was a medium size man, medium height and weight. Nothing stood out. Ivan glanced at him but didn't stare. He'd been waiting and he'd continue to wait until the man told him what he was there for.

He did not introduce himself or tell Ivan anything about his confinement. Ivan knew his rights and he demanded them.

"I want a lawyer and I want my phone call," Ivan said before clamming up.

The nondescript man pretended Ivan hadn't spoken. Reaching into his inside pocket, he took out a pack of Camels, put one between his lips and lit it. He tossed the pack on the table between them.

"Help yourself," he said, inhaling the smoke deeply. Once the smoke escaped through his mouth and nose, he spoke.

"Where'd you get the knife? It's unusual to say the least."

Ivan couldn't help himself.

"What knife?" he said, as if he'd just come into this movie.

The man said nothing in reply. He sat looking at Ivan for a few more minutes.

Ivan shook his head and put in his two cents worth after the guy looked at him for a few more minutes.

"I don't smoke. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't smoke while I'm in here," Ivan said.

The man made an effort to get a piece of tobacco off his tongue. He looked at Ivan for a few more minutes. Each drag he took from the cigarette, he exhaled through his nose and mouth at the same time.

When the cigarette was just about half finished, the man stood up and he went to the door and left the room. The door wasn't locked. He waited to hear if it would be locked. It was quiet and he was alone.

Ivan turned to study the door. It appeared to be an ordinary door. There was a door knob and no kind of locking system.

Ivan was no fool and he wasn't getting up to test it to see how far he could go before all hell broke loose. He assumed he was being watched and anything that was said in the little room was recorded.

When the guard came to get him, he opened the door and said, "Come with me."

Ivan was taken back to where his day started. He was left there to lie on his bunk and ponder the events that brought him here.

What Ivan thought was the same afternoon on Tuesday, the guard came for him a second time. Ivan needed to step around the breakfast tray that had been put on the floor in front of the door inside the room.

Ivan heard the tray arrive. The door inside the door opened. A pair of hands put the tray on the floor in front of the door. The door within a door closed.

This time the key turning in the lock announced the return of the big guard. He pushed the door open and said, "Come with me."

He was taken to the same room and left there for a different guy to come in and sit across from him. The man was smoking when he came in. He leaned to pick up the ash tray next to his chair and set it on the table where he put out his used up smoke.

It took a minute of staring at Ivan before he reached into his jacket pocket to take out a pack of Marlboros. He lit one and offered the pack to Ivan.

"I don't smoke. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't smoke while I'm in here."

The man picked up the Marlboro pack, putting them back into his pocket.

"I want a lawyer. I want my phone call," Ivan said.

The man took a minute to ask him the same question the previous guy asked him.

"Where'd you get that knife?" the man asked.

"I want a lawyer. I want my phone call," Ivan said, and he said no more.

He wasn't sure what was going on but he would continue to ask for what he knew to be his constitutional rights. It was obvious they didn't care much for his rights and didn't mention them.

Once Clay reached Harry on Tuesday, Harry called him back with an address for the FBI agent who gave McCoy his card. Clay didn't know Tampa well, but he'd find a gas station once he was in Tampa and ask for directions.

Harry hadn't been surprised to hear that the FBI came back for Ivan. He asked for enough time to meet with Ivan. He'd been given more than enough time to accomplish that. He wasn't the one who needed to do the leg work. Harry was good on the phone and issuing orders to others. Clay would need to go to Tampa to get inside the federal facility where they were holding Ivan.

Clay didn't bother to look for a map. Once he was in Tampa, he stopped at the first gas station he passed to ask where the address Harry gave him was located. The attendant knew where he was going.

It was a complex of buildings that looked like warehouses. There was a guard posted at the entrance to where he parked. After checking his ID, the guard instructed him on how to get inside.

Clay went inside once his ID was checked by a second guard. There was a long corridor inside the front entrance and at the end of it was a sign that read, 'Visitors.'

The hallway made Clay feel claustrophobic. When he stepped into the area designated for visitors, there were two dozen orange chairs, a receptionist area behind a counter, and two doors, besides the door he came in through.

"There are no visiting hours except on the weekend," the receptionist told him in a polite apologetic voice.

Harry told him what to say when he was told that.

"I'll speak with whoever is in charge," Clay said in an authoritative voice.

"If you'll take a seat, I'll call upstairs," she said.

Clay sat for the next two hours. Getting up two different times to question her about meeting with the man in charge.

A few people came to the receptionist's desk through one of the two doors that led deeper into the building. After talking to the receptionist, taking a look at the lonely figure in the waiting room, they went back to where they came from.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said after another hour passed. "We don't get visitors during the week."

Clay smiled and knew the run around when he was getting one. He came to Tampa to see Ivan, and he intended to see him. He kept waiting.

The phone rang. The receptionist picked it up. She chatted casually before hanging up the phone.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist told him. "We're really busy today. People from Washington are here. The staff is busy with them. We have visiting hours on the weekend. You're welcome to return then."

"I'll wait for someone to have time," Clay said. "Did I mention Senator Harry McCallister sent me to this facility?" Clay asked, the sound of authority still in his voice, as he filtered it through his anger.

She picked up the phone and turned her back as she spoke.

Clay didn't think bringing Harry into it was his best move, but it was the only thing he could think to say that might move someone.

At six that evening a man who looked like a mortician waltzed in through the door no one else had come through since Clay's arrival.

"You're Clayton Olson?" he asked in a pleasant voice and with a pleasant smile on his face.

"No, I'm Mother Teresa, and I by god want to see Ivan Aleksa right now or you're going to have Senator McCallister's people crawling up your ass tomorrow, Buster."

The pleasant little smile Clay wanted to smack off the guy's face came back with a deeply apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry. I know you'll understand, we do things by the book here. Someone should have told you Mr. Aleksa is being processed. No outside contact is allowed during processing. When his processing is complete, he'll need to be interviewed. I'm sure the process will be completed on Friday. Luckily, we have visiting hours on the weekend, and you're free to come back to visit Saturday or Sunday," the mortician said, leaving Clay standing there outraged, when he left through the door he came in.

When he looked around, the receptionist had gone too.

It was going home time and she went home.

Clay tried the two doors that led away from the reception area. Both doors were locked and a flashing red light caught his attention. It was over the door he came. He hadn't noticed it before.

This Facility Is Closed.

Clay managed to go back to his car where he did his best to calm down. He wasn't sure what to do. He needed to talk to Harry. He would stay in Tampa, until he saw Ivan, no matter how long it took.

Clay stopped in front of the Comfort Inn he'd passed on the way into Tampa. As he sat out front and thought about spending the night, he realized he had to go home. He wouldn't have any better luck tomorrow. These folks had stonewalling down to a science.

Dylan would be less than pleased if both his fathers were out of reach at this point. It was the one thing Clay spent years making clear to Ivan. Leaving Dylan without a lot of careful preparation would be a bad move. Clay needed to be home where Dylan could see him.

He started the Buick and turned south toward the cove.

Clay made up his mind, he'd take Dylan with him on Saturday.

Angus McCoy was surprised after driving to Tampa and following the directions to the address Hagerty gave him for the 1983 brown Toyota Jameson ticketed two nights before the murder at the cove. The front door of the building wasn't open, but the guy who owned the car, Raymond Ortiz, had it registered to an office building. McCoy drove away after trying the front door. He'd try back between seven and eight. He'd passed a conveniently located Denny's two blocks from Ortiz's building where his office apparently was.

There was a Best Western Motel next to Denny's. McCoy would get a room there, once he saw Ortiz and he was sure he had the proper address for him. Since he planned to follow Mr. Ortiz to see where he went and what he did, he'd probably be in Tampa for much of the week. When he tailed a guy in Chicago, it sometimes took weeks to get to anything that could be used to convict the subject of his tail of a crime.

Ten minutes after he left the office building, McCoy was drinking coffee and considering the extensive breakfast menu. The lumberjack breakfast sounded right up his alley. He asked the waitress for a telephone book, and she brought him coffee and the phone book.

He used the white pages to look up Raymond Ortiz. Under his name he found, Ortiz, Raymond, see private investigations.

"The guy's a shamus," McCoy said to himself. "Now, he had a conundrum. Did he pop in and introduce himself. Ask the guy, "Hey, oh by the way, did you happen to misplace a knife in your travels?"

While it sounded like the easy way to get straight to the point, it isn't how things were done. He'd park out in front of his office, and he'd wait for Ortiz to show up and he'd follow him for a while.

He might learn something while he followed along and maybe he'd figure out how Ortiz fit into the picture he was developing. Even then, McCoy was left to wonder, is this his man? A PI works for a living. Raymond could have been at work two days before Mason was killed, when that ticket was written.

In that case, he'd need to find out who he was working for. That seemed to him what he might find out by following Ortiz. Sooner or later, they'd need to talk.

McCoy ate and returned to the Ortiz building and parked across the street to wait. He drove around looking for off street parking but found none. That meant Ortiz would park on the street, McCoy would park near where he parked and keep an eye on his movements for a few days.

McCoy wasn't stopped by anyone when he went inside the eight story structure. There were two elevators and a listing of the tenants inside a glass enclosed cabinet. He ran his finger down the listings until he came to, Ortiz Detective Agency, 301.

He took the stairs and walked up to the third floor. He knew better than to take the elevator and come face to face with the guy when he least expected it. He could use the exercise.

The office was all the way up the hall on the right. It was right around the corner from the elevators. Checking out the office, it was a one man operation in McCoy's opinion. The office was too small to be anything else. There was one door on the street side of the building.

McCoy didn't like that the office faced the street. He was parked right across from Ortiz's window. He'd relocate his car to a spot that wasn't easy to see from the private detective's office.

He took the elevator down and he moved his car to wait for Raymond to show up. McCoy had all but made up his mind, Ortiz followed Mason to the cove and he parked to watch where he went. He reported back to someone, and that someone came early Thursday and he stuck a knife in Mason.

A PI knew how difficult it was to get away with murder.

Ortiz showed up a little after eight. He parked right across from where McCoy was parked. That made it easy for McCoy. All he had to do was wait for Ortiz to make a move, and he'd be right behind him. He'd tail him and see if he could learn anything. He wanted to see where Ortiz went and he especially wanted to see who he met.

He wanted to go up to his office and introduce himself, but once he revealed he was there, he wouldn't expect Ortiz to go about his business as usual. Maybe Ortiz wouldn't talk to him. Once Ortiz knew he was there, he might not cooperate, and that meant following him.

Once he eliminated Ortiz as the killer, he'd revisit the idea of introducing himself to ask him about the ticket he got at the cove.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

On to Chapter Twenty-Eight

Back to Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Index

Rick Beck Home Page

"The Gulf and the Spy" Copyright © 2023 OLYMPIA50. All rights reserved.
    This work may not be duplicated in any form (physical, electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the author's written permission. All applicable copyright laws apply. All individuals depicted are fictional with any resemblance to real persons being purely coincidental.

Home Page | Authors | Stories by the Writer Suggested Reading | Suggested Viewing | Links Privacy Policy | Terms of Service Send a Comment All Site Content © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer unless otherwise noted Layout © 2003 - 2024 Tarheel Writer