At the time McCoy was waiting for Ortiz to make a move, Ivan was being let out of his room to be walked across the facility once again. The guard was the same one who walked him back and forth to the same room the day before. He considered making an effort to communicate with the very large man.

There were two guys who would appear in the room where he was taken once he took a seat. Only one of them came to the room at a time. To Ivan they were interchangeable. Medium height, medium build, and they both wore wrinkled suits. Ivan found both equally annoying, filling the room with smoke.

Today the guy leaned to pick up an ashtray off the floor where the last guy put it. He took a pack of Marlboro out of his inside pocket. Taking a cigarette from the pack, he lit it, taking in the smoke deep into his lungs. He tossed the pack on the table between them. He tossed the matches next to the pack.

"Help yourself," he said, smoke spilling from his lips.

"No thanks. I don't smoke. You know those things will kill you?"

"I'll take my chances," he said, continuing to breathe in smoke.

Exhaling through his mouth and nose at the same time, he was a man who enjoyed his smoke.

"I don't mind you killing yourself, but I'd appreciate it if you don't take me with you," Ivan said.

The man across the table showed no indication he heard Ivan. Either that, or his protest was being ignored.

"Where'd you get the knife?" he asked. After smoking the Marlboro down to a butt he crushed it out in the ash tray.

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

"You're slow on the uptake, Aleksa. You aren't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. You aren't in the system. We've got you now. Play ball with me and I can see things go easy on you. Fuck with me, son, and you'll regret it. Where'd you get the knife, Aleksa?"

"What knife are we talking about?" Ivan asked for the sake of clarity.

"You might think you're cute. I don't think you're cute. I don't like guys who think they're cute. You don't want to fuck with me, boy. No, you don't even want to try. Where'd you get the knife? You can tell me. It's an unusual knife. I might like to buy me a set."

"Well, I still don't know what knife you're talking about? Can you be a bit more specific?"

Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he drew out the knife that should have been in an evidence locker somewhere. The last time Ivan saw that knife, it was in the middle of Mason's chest. It was the knife Ivan thought he was referring to.

The interrogator tossed the knife on the table. It bounced once before it skittered across the floor. It came to rest against the wall next to the door behind Ivan.

Ivan ignored the fact it appeared out of the guys pocket.

"You dropped your knife, Ace," Ivan said as if he didn't know.

"Why don't you pick it up and hand it to me," he said like it was a serious request.

Ivan couldn't contain his urge to laugh at the guy.

"You're serious? This wouldn't even make a bad B movie. You dropped it. You pick it up," Ivan said in a voice that was more a growl.

He never took his eyes off the guy after that. He might be a prisoner but he was no fool. The guy failed if he was trying to get Ivan's fingerprints on the weapon that killed Mason. He knew better than to play this game.

Ivan sat tight as they stared at each other.

Ivan knew how he felt. He'd felt like that only once before. It was while he was in Southeast Asia, after the Company took him into custody at the Vietnamese border. Nothing made any sense after that.

There was a guy who came to question him while he was locked inside a tiger cage. He'd ask a single question too, before he walked away.

This man abruptly stood. He went to retrieve the knife. He stood looking at Ivan's back for a minute. He opened the door and went out. He didn't close the door.

Perhaps Ivan should attempt an escape? Where would he go? He'd seen nothing but doors on his daily walks. There were no windows for him to know if it was night or day. There were no markings: This Way Out.

He'd wait where he was and trust that the people who cared about him would see to it that he wasn't mistreated while they worked to get him released. Up until now, his treatment was annoying, not nearly as brutal as being in that tiger cage. These people would get around to telling him what they wanted from him. The last time he was in a similar situation, it cost him five years out of his life.

Ivan didn't have five years. He'd resist for as long as he could. He waited for the big guard to come to walk him back across the facility. He sat at the table until he heard the guard's voice.

"Come with me," he said.

Ivan wondered if he was really a guy or some new robot that looked like a guard but was of an artificial intelligence. He said the same thing each time, and Ivan did what he was told.

He paid attention to the two extra long hallways they walked down. On the way back he went down the flight of stairs they came up on the way to the little room. It took ten minutes walking leisurely to get back to his room.

There were no bars or sophisticated automated locking systems. The guard opened the door to his cell with a key and Ivan didn't need to be told to go inside. He wasn't arguing with the big guy or robot.

In his cell was a standard metal rack for sleeping. There was some bedding to soften his sleeping experience. There was one metal type chair bolted to the floor beside the rack. There was a toilet and a sink without fixtures.

What he calculated was Wednesday afternoon, he was returning to his cell from his second visit to the smoking room that day, Ivan decided he needed to try to communicate with his guard. He was without emotion who was content to walk in silence.

Ivan was hungry. He hadn't eaten the food that was left for him. It was put through the door by a pair of white hands twice each day. Being accustomed to Mama's cooking. The food that was being delivered to his room wasn't at all appetizing, but hunger was starting to become a problem.

"I'm hungry. I can't eat whatever it is they're giving me. I don't suppose you'd be able to get me a sandwich? Something edible?"

"Go in," the guard said.

The guard stood at the door, waiting for Ivan to obey. Ivan waited for the door to close and the key to turn in the lock. Nothing ventured nothing gained, Ivan considered once he was inside.

"I'll see what I can do. I do what they tell me to do. They didn't say for me to feed you. My name is Roland," he said in a causal voice.

"I'm Ivan," Ivan said, sticking his hand out for a shaking.

Roland took his hand and they shook on it.

"I need to lock you in. I'll be back," Roland said, locking the door.

That's the first interaction with a human being he'd had since the FBI handed him off to the marshals who brought him to this place.

This contact couldn't be expected to yield up a friendship that blossomed inside of Ivan's room.

Roland returned later that day with two sandwiches, a jar of pickles and some olives. He had a bottle of Pepsi he shared with Ivan. It was his last soda, but he went shopping on Thursdays, the day he was paid, and he'd be sure to shop with Ivan in mind.

After eating food he recognized Wednesday evening, Roland came back an hour later with a folding chair and a deck of cards. Using the metal bunk, minus the bedding, for a table, they played rummy. Roland was skilled at the game. Ivan caught on fast. For the first time Roland showed some emotion. He liked winning.

Roland told Ivan he had a room there. The room had a small kitchen and a fridge. Mostly he fixed sandwiches, but he did heat up canned goods from time to time when he wanted a hot meal.

In every bad situation there can be a ray of sunshine and Roland was one of those. He knew nothing about what was going on. He showed Ivan his paycheck, which was a fair amount of pay, but there was nothing to identify who he worked for. In the spot where the name of a company should appear, there was a nine digit number.

For the first time since being chained in the backseat of the FBI's sedan, Ivan felt better about his situation. Roland knew nothing about why he was here. He was summoned on an intercom and he rarely saw anyone at the facility. He mostly watched TV in his room.

Right now, Ivan was the only prisoner Roland took care of. From time to time there were up to three men Roland tended to. He told Ivan everything he knew, which wasn't much, but it made Ivan feel better to have some human contact he enjoyed. Roland was friendly.

Roland identified with Ivan, not the rude men who told him what to do and when to do it. Ivan was sure Roland was lonely and he enjoyed feeding and playing games with Ivan. Ivan thought he was child like, but he wouldn't ask him if he was slow. That would be insulting.

He'd accepted Roland for the savior he was. He'd given him back hope that he'd get back to his own life one day.

He didn't do anything to deserve being held prisoner.

McCoy took note that Raymond Ortiz was five nine or five ten. He had brown hair and eyes with a medium build. He came out of the office building and got into the brown 1983 Toyota, after being at his office for maybe an hour.

McCoy followed him to a bakery a few blocks away. Ortiz came out eating a bear claw and carrying a large cup of coffee. McCoy was glad he ate a good breakfast. He wanted a Twinkie and more coffee, but he'd live for now and when he got a chance he'd buy a thermos and a bag full of Twinkies.

Tomorrow he'd be prepared.

Ortiz drove across town staying on the same main boulevard. The traffic was moderate and McCoy had no trouble keeping the Toyota in sight. Ortiz pulled up in front of an office building, parked at the front door, and went inside.

McCoy couldn't curb his curiosity and he parked across the street from the Toyota. He dodged traffic to cross the street and go inside to check the directory. He wanted to get some idea of the kind of clientele Ortiz was servicing.

The first surprise came when his finger located one law firm after another, investment brokers, and insurance companies. The second surprise came when halfway down the list of offices, a man caught his attention as he passed carrying several large envelopes.

It was Ortiz and it was all McCoy could do not to duck, but he was just a guy looking for a company. He calmed his heart that jumped in his chest. He gave Ortiz time to get to his car before he moved away from the directory.

He got a close up look at Ortiz's face. Even though Ortiz didn't turn his head to look at who was there, he'd noticed McCoy was there.

Just by reading the names on the directory, McCoy deduced this was the high rent district and a high class business presence. Ortiz did business with the fat cats. His office was on the other side of the tracks, compared to his clientele. Well healed folks hired the best help money could buy. It indicated Ortiz was highly regarded.

He didn't follow Ortiz outside and race across the street to get in his car so he could follow him. Ortiz wouldn't miss that the guy at the directory when he came out, was now running to his car and then turned around so he didn't lose him.

McCoy was a professional that followed crooks all the time. He'd gotten caught doing something he knew not to do. He'd need to go back to Ortiz's office and wait for him to return there. The next time Ortiz left, he'd be behind him, and he wouldn't try to find out what he was up to. The envelopes were an indication of pick up and delivery.

This morning's tailing was done. He stood on the curb and watched the brown Toyota drive out of sight. He'd need to do a lot better if he intended to figure out where Ortiz fit into Mason's murder.

He would make use of the free time he had. He'd stop and buy a thermos and get it filled with coffee. He'd buy a few dozen Twinkies to keep him going between meals. He couldn't afford to get too close to Ortiz, until he was ready to confront him. First, he wanted to see where he went and what he did.

After the stop for Twinkies, he drove back and parked near the building where Ortiz's office was. Once Ortiz returned, McCoy stayed put. Once he was on the move again, he'd be behind him.

This was how it went for most of the week. Ortiz picked up envelopes the first thing in the morning, and he dropped them off at an assortment of locations. Sometimes he went into a place empty handed, and he came out carrying an envelope. It was always the same. McCoy couldn't figure out how he had time to drive to the cove.

Was someone else using his car? Then, how did he get around?

He did a job for someone. It took him to the cove at night.

Ortiz didn't look around when he was getting in and out of his car. He showed no sign he suspected he was being tailed, but McCoy didn't like the idea that Ortiz's office faced the street. He could look out and see McCoy sitting in his car, waiting. If he saw him in the car, and he saw that car behind him from time to time, sooner or later, he'd figure it out. He was an investigator. Investigators were suspicious by nature.

There were risks whenever you tailed someone. McCoy felt a bit exposed by what he was feeling. He began parking on the same side of the street as Ortiz's building. He could wait for a parking spot a few spaces behind where Ortiz parked.

On Thursday, he made another stop for Twinkies and it was time to go see someone Ortiz was delivering his envelopes to. He wanted to get some idea of what was in the envelopes.

McCoy began each morning at Denny's to keep up his strength. The Twinkies held him over, until he got his evening meal. He could make a thermos of coffee last most of the day.

McCoy stayed in his car and watched. He wrote down the address to have a record of the stops the man made. McCoy was looking for a pattern that would tell him something about what Ortiz was up to.

Since he was never inside for more than a few minutes. Except where he made his first stop in the morning. Thursday morning, he was inside the building where he picked up the envelopes for longer than on other mornings.

McCoy calculated the extra time meant more complete instructions of what he was to do with one or more of the envelopes. Was he making collections for one of the businesses? He went to all kinds of different places where he took the envelopes. Several times he went to the airport where he picked up more envelopes. He took those envelopes back to the high rise in the high rent district.

He drove sensibly and was easy to follow. He didn't give any indication he suspected he was being followed, but by Thursday, McCoy was getting to the point where he needed to confront Ortiz if he hoped to get anywhere. Driving around Tampa was getting old. He'd give it one more day before he would confront Ortiz.

Sometime after three on Thursday, Ortiz came out of one of his routine deliveries, and before getting into his car, he looked behind him toward where McCoy sat in his car, waiting. He looked in the other direction, but his next move told McCoy all he needed to know.

McCoy moved down in his seat when Ortiz looked toward him. He was sure he wasn't seen, but his car had been everywhere Ortiz had been for several days now.

As McCoy sat back up, and started his car, and he watched Ortiz back up to get out of his parking space, and when he did, he went from a dead stop to making a U-turn that took him right in front of a taxi cab and a white cargo van.

Horns blew, fingers flew, and McCoy was caught flat footed. He made the exact same crazy ass move, not wanting to lose the car he was following. The resulting horn blowing and cursing didn't phase McCoy, and he waved his contrition. Yes, he was crazy but he knew it was a stupid move when he made it.

It was then he realized that he'd been had. Ortiz had made him. That's why he made the move, and now McCoy was only a few cars behind the private detective's car.

Backing off, he let Ortiz go. There was no way he all of a sudden became Mario Andretti, except, once he made the crazy move, he watched in his rear view to see it anyone tried to keep up with him. McCoy made a rookie mistake and he knew better.

He was tired of following Ortiz. He'd seen all of Tampa he needed to see a couple of times. He'd go back to his motel, catch a shower, and he'd get his evening meal and after a good night's sleep, he'd decide what he wanted to do on Friday.

McCoy dodged traffic again rather than going to the light at the corner a half block away and he went into Ruby Tuesdays for something more substantial than a Twinkie. The menu was filled with a variety of hamburgers that made it hard to decide which he wanted. He liked the onion rings there and he got a frosty root beer that would make his dinner just the ticket. He was ready to forget the junk he nibbled on all day.

There was a Tampa paper someone left on the seat in the booth. He began browsing through it after ordering his meal. When he got that hinky feeling and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck, he put the paper down and looked around.

He felt like he was being watched. No one in the half empty restaurant was looking his way. Once he was satisfied, he picked the paper up again. In a minute he was once again checking to see if someone was watching him.

That's when his food came and he tackled the man sized hamburger and mused on the onion rings. The soda hit the spot, but a beer would have tasted better. McCoy decided that the burger and onion rings weren't quite enough and he ordered a slice of apple pie with two scoops of vanilla ice cream. That would be just the thing to finish his meal with and keep him from waking up with the munchies at two or three in the morning.

As he totally focused on his apple pie, Raymond Ortiz slipped into the booth across from McCoy. It was enough to give a guy indigestion.

"I'm tired. I'm hungry, and I'm tired of watching you feed your face. You've had a shower too, I see. You want to tell me why you're following me, bud? You've got to be a cop of some kind, but I can't figure it out. You aren't a fed, you're way too casual for a fed. I'd think you're a Tampa cop, only I know all the city cops. You could be a shamus, but I'm a private dick and I've never seen you before. Why don't you tell me who you are?"

McCoy almost lost his pie because of this sudden turnabout. McCoy wasn't all that surprised. He'd been caught in the trap Ortiz set for him. It wasn't out of the question, when he returned to his motel, Ortiz followed him. He'd never once looked into his rear view mirror.

McCoy could have come up with something to throw Ortiz off his trail, but the truth might be his best bet at this point. That might be a way of throwing Ortiz off balance.

"Actually, I'm a Chicago Homicide detective. You're good, Ortiz," McCoy said. "Coffee? Some pie? I should have thought that you being a detective, you might want to detect why I've been following you."

"You know my name. Maybe you ought to give me yours. I'd like to be on an even footing here."

"Angus McCoy, at your service," McCoy said.

McCoy was a professional and he was embarrassed. He'd been caught at a game he'd played for years. He was on vacation. That had to be it. He wasn't sharp. He wasn't in his element. Ortiz was.

He'd gotten too relaxed, but maybe he could make it work for him. What he couldn't get by following Ortiz, maybe he could get by being totally honest with the man.

"Yeah, it's been a long day and I haven't eaten. Who put you on my ass, and what's a Chicago homicide detective doing in Tampa? That makes no sense to me."

"Long story, Ortiz. Want a piece of pie or some coffee?"

Ortiz couldn't hide his curiosity and he was starving.

McCoy raised his hand to get the attention of the waitress.

"I'm Angus McCoy. My ID is in my room. I don't carry it when I'm tailing someone," McCoy said. "You know the routine."

"You carry a gun but not your ID? A cop stops you and finds the piece, he's not going to let you go to your motel for your ID. You need to tell a cop you're carrying if you get stopped."

"How do you know I'm carrying?" McCoy said, impressed.

"I was Tampa PD for five years before I went private. I was taught not to get caught making that crazy move you made this afternoon, McCoy. You don't do crazy stuff. You go back to go and pick him up next time. You been out in front of my office all week," he said. "I've seen your car more than once."

The waitress stood next to the table, pencil at the ready.

"Coffee," Ortiz said. "And a piece of that pie. No ice cream."

"Are you a collector of some kind. You don't look like a leg breaker. I've watched you all week. I've watched you go in and out of all kinds of places," McCoy said.

"Don't worry about what I do. What are you doing? If you must know, I work for an office full of attorneys. I pick up papers. I drop off papers. Papers are flown in from all over the country. I make sure they get where they need to be when they need to be there. Papers going to and coming from clients. It pays the bills."

McCoy took out his wallet and removed a copy of the parking ticket that had been put on Ortiz's car at the cove. He pushed it in front of Ortiz.

Ortiz glanced at the ticket.

"No one follows you for a parking ticket. Get serious McCoy. What's this all about? I got thirty days to pay this thing. This isn't why you're tailing me, McCoy. Get serious. What are you after?"

McCoy reached in his inside pocket and took out the Polaroid he'd taken of Mason's body.

"How's this for serious, Ortiz," McCoy said, flipping the picture in front of Ortiz.

"Mother fucker," Ortiz yelped.

People looked up from their dinners.

"You don't think I did this, do you?" Ortiz whispered too loud. "I'm a PI, not a killer. I tailed the guy. I made sure of where he went in the camping place. I reported it to the guy who paid me to tail his wife."

"Where'd Mason fit in with the guy paying you?" McCoy asked.

"His wife was seeing someone. She was meeting that ape at his place. Some dump on the other side of Tampa. You see her, oh man, what was a babe like her doing with this scuz ball? I followed her. She led me to him. I'm told to follow him and report back where he goes. Let me make this clear, McCoy, I had no idea he was going to do this. It was a simple tail. He didn't even want pictures."

McCoy scooped up the rest of his ice cream and pushed the plate off to one side. McCoy was the picture of confidence, even though he played the only cards he had. Ortiz was no fool, and in a minute he'd figure out he didn't have squat. It's why he was following Ortiz.

"Motive and opportunity Ortiz, if you didn't stick a knife in Mason, who had you following him? Why were you following Mason?"

"It was a job, McCoy. I'm a private dick. I follow people too. Why should I answer your questions. I had no motive to off that dude."

McCoy's hand moved across the table and his index finger tapped on the knife in the middle of Mason's chest.

"Motive and opportunity. You were a cop. What do cops do? They look for motive and opportunity. You're it if we don't find anyone else," McCoy said with certainty in his words.

Ortiz stared at the picture and he knew the ticket put him there. His mind was working on the details he knew. The man hired him to follow his wife to her lover. He followed her lover, and now the guy was dead. They could place his car at the scene of the crime.

Ortiz couldn't be sure what McCoy knew and what he supposed. He was right about one thing, that ticket put him on the spot. If his client killed that dude, he could go down as an accessory to murder if he didn't have his story straight. He wasn't taking the fall for this.

Co-operating with McCoy seemed like a good bet if he wanted to avoid taking a fall for something he had no part in.

"I'm tired. I'm hungry. Let me go home to the little woman and the kids. I'll meet you where you say tomorrow morning. I'll give you everything I have. We'll need to go to my office. I'll show you the case file, but he was evasive. Paid cash. Didn't even give me his name."

McCoy told him where he ate breakfast. They'd meet there at six.

"Ortiz, don't try to skip out on me. I'll give you some food for thought. You said the guy paid you cash. Who knows how much he paid you, or what he was paying you to do," McCoy said.

"You want some food for thought, McCoy? Think about this, if I was a killer, and I discovered you on my tail, I wouldn't go watch you feed your face," Ortiz revealed.

"What I would do is let you follow me to some out of the way place, and while you wait for me to make my next move, I'd ease up behind you, while you sit in your car, and I'd put a bullet in your brain," Ortiz said.

"I told you, McCoy, I'll give you what I have, and that's what I'll do in tomorrow morning."

Ortiz got up and walked out of the restaurant, leaving McCoy with his thoughts.

Angus McCoy decided right there and then, he liked Raymond Ortiz. He was his kind of private detective.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

On to Chapter Twenty-Nine

Back to Chapter Twenty-Seven

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 | Christmas Stories | 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