Clay couldn't keep his mind on his work. Sitting in his office, he struggled not to give into his despair. He needed to remain strong for Dylan. Their son had his own idea about Ivan being missing from the cove, even when he was locked up there. Once Ivan returned from Southeast Asia, he'd been a steady force in Dylan's life.

Everyone was reassuring that the mess would be cleared up and Ivan would be at home where he belonged. Dylan wasn't buying it. The idea Daddy-O could be taken from them for something he didn't do was scary, making his absence even more disturbing.

Clay couldn't explain it and their lives went on without Ivan being present in them. It wasn't the same and no one had any idea when it would be. Dylan hardly remembered a time when Ivan wasn't at the cove, but he wasn't there now. It changed everything.

After a week away from their embrace, Ivan was out of reach. It was almost like he hadn't been there.

Harry was as luckless as anyone else when it came to getting Ivan back to the people who loved him. He didn't have time to spend hours on the phone being switched from one operator to the next as he searched for answers. The trail could be followed to Tampa. Once the FBI gave Ivan to the marshals, the trail went cold.

His chief staff didn't do much better. They were sure Ivan was in the system. No one could say exactly where he was. They were constantly reassured, 'We've never lost a prisoner. He's somewhere in Tampa. He'll turn up.'

As optimistic as it sounded, it didn't reassure anyone. Clay found where the FBI said he went, but he had no proof that's where Ivan was being held. He couldn't get beyond the reception area, where he learned Ivan was being processed.

He'd return on Saturday and there was no way to avoid taking Dylan, although Ivan wouldn't like his son seeing him locked up. Clay watched Dylan grow angrier by the day. They'd go to Tampa on Saturday and refuse to leave until they saw Ivan.

McCoy sat in a booth at Denny's and drank his coffee while reading the morning newspaper. His lumberjack breakfast was delivered and more coffee was poured. He wondered if Raymond would crawl under a rock and disappear, rather than meet him for another session of, who put you up to it?

McCoy was sure Ortiz didn't murder Mason. As sure as a homicide detective ever got about a thing like that. Sitting face to face with Ortiz smoothed the way for today's meeting. You could tell a lot by watching someone's eyes while you question them.

He couldn't be sure how much help Ortiz was going to be, but he intended to come clean in order to keep himself out of any possibility of an accessory charge. If he could give McCoy enough, Ivan would be off the hook, and McCoy could go back to Chicago, once Florida authorities took over to prosecute the killer.

Ortiz sat down in the booth across from McCoy, as he buttered his pancakes. Ortiz reached across to pluck a piece of bacon off McCoy's plate and he began to nibble.

"What I can't figure out, is how do they get their bacon so crisp?" Ortiz wondered. "My bacon goes limp before it's done."

McCoy raised his hand as the waitress passed nearby.

She came over to pour McCoy more coffee.

"Get him one of these," McCoy said, pointing at his plate. "Put it on my tab. I'm feeling generous this morning."

A few minutes later Ortiz had a duplicate lumberjack breakfast placed in front of him.

"I can't eat all this food," Ortiz said. "I won't be able to move."

"That's what I said, but somehow I manage to eat it all."

Talking business while you ate leads to indigestion but there was no hurry. Once Ortiz showed up, McCoy was fairly sure he'd co-operate with his investigation.

"Where are your people from, Ortiz?"

"We go back to the Mayan Empire. We have a thousand years of Indian blood running in our veins. Some Spanish mixed in. You, McCoy?"

"Scots-Irish. I've got thirty year old Irish Whiskey running through my veins."

Ortiz laughed.

"You look spiffy this morning, Ortiz."

"I feel spiffy," Ortiz replied. "I have thought about our meeting yesterday. I don't know why but I feel like my best move is to cooperate with you. I slept on the idea and it's a sound decision. My wife thinks so too. She's a straight arrow."

"You tell your wife about your work, Ortiz?"

"Anything squirrelly. I walk it by her. She's smarter than I am. She has a perception I don't have."

"I thought Spanish men were men and women needed to keep quiet. Something like that," McCoy said.

"That's someone's idea of how it is. A real man knows his wife is smarter than he is. It's why we marry the women we do. Men benefit from that intelligence. A husband and wife are a team. Except when it comes to changing diapers. That's best left to your wife."

"You're a pretty smart guy," McCoy said.

"Not so smart I didn't see through the guy who gave me the thousand bucks to follow his wife to her lover," Ortiz said. "Men who put a thousand dollars in front of a guy, aren't telling the entire truth. Money speaks," Ortiz said, pouring syrup on his pancakes.

"What did he tell you?" McCoy said, sipping his coffee.

"Gave me a picture. Told me where and when to follow her, and once she took me to her lover, I would follow him and report back to the guy. Wanted to know where he went. What he did."

"You have a name for this guy?" McCoy asked, knowing nothing was this easy.

"No, he called me. He didn't give me his name, but it didn't take a genius to find out his wife's name. Being a good investigator, and not taking anyone's word for the story they tell me, I followed him until I got his name and found his place of business. I'm not so big a fool that I don't find out who I'm working for. No hint the guy wanted to kill the guy I found for him. People are capable of anything, but murder isn't anything most people will take part in."

"You know more than he thinks you know," McCoy said.

"I can lead you to him but I have nothing that says he offed the guy. Like I said, he gave no indication he was a killer. I've got enough trouble without getting mixed up in murder, McCoy. I'll give you everything I have. I write everything down and that makes it look like there's a lot in his file, but it's my filling in the blanks of what he didn't say and not any factual evidence. It wouldn't be allowed in court but it might help you prove what it is he did."

An hour later McCoy and Ortiz sat in the private investigator's office. Ortiz put the file in front of McCoy. The name on the tab was Cho Pak. Ortiz waited for him to decide the questions he wanted to ask.

For the first time, McCoy felt as though he was making some headway. The story the file told pointed to Cho Pak as the most likely suspect, because of the timing, if nothing else. Once Ortiz followed Mason to the Cove Campgrounds, and reported it to Pak, Mason was dead within twenty-four hours.

The parking ticket and notes agreed with the story Ortiz told. As a good investigator, he'd not be implicated in what Pak did with the information Ortiz collected. McCoy lifted the last sheet of paper in the Pak file and found the original of the parking ticket.

"You think he'll pay this ticket?" McCoy asked, holding it up to inspect it.

"No. Part of the case. I have a elementary filing system. That ticket goes with the case notes. When I pay it, I know right where to find it. You could always tear it up, McCoy. Quid pro quo. I scratch your back. You scratch mine."

"Why would a Chicago detective be interested in a parking ticket from Hooterville, Florida."

"Because I'm a poor PI trying to make ends meet?"

"Tell me the story. If I like it and it sounds like you're being straight with me, I'll pay the ticket, Ortiz. Least I can do."

"My friends call me Ray," Ortiz said.

"My friends call me McCoy, Ortiz," McCoy said. "The story? Don't leave anything out. I've read your notes but I like to hear the things inside a guy's head."

"I always tell the truth, McCoy," Ortiz said, crossing himself. "The whole truth is a matter of semantics."

"No wonder you're a poor struggling PI," McCoy said.

Ortiz laughed.

"I'm sitting here at my desk. I'm pondering whether I should pay the light bill or the rent this month. I'm on the revolving door plan. I pay what I can afford to pay. Haven't been thrown out yet," Ortiz bragged.

"The story as you remember it," McCoy said.

"The door opens, there is no knock. A small wiry man stands in the doorway looking at me. He's been down a thousand miles of rough road and his face shows every mile."

"'I'm Ray Ortiz, if that's who you're looking for,' I said."

"He's maybe Filipino. Maybe he's fifty. He isn't sure what he wants or how to ask for what he wants. After he sits down, he reaches in his pocket and starts putting hundred dollar bills in front of me. It amounted to $1000.00. He had my attention and I saw my bills being up to date for this month. He didn't say anything. He just counted the bills out in a pile in front of him," Ortiz said.

"Reaching in his pocket and he takes a picture out and slides it across the table at me. Man, I mean she is one hell of a babe. I'm sure she is Filipino. She's in a white gown. She looks like an angel. He says, 'She's my wife. She's seeing someone. Follow her. Find out who she's seeing. Follow him. And get all the information you can on him. Her name and address are on the back of the picture. We don't live together. I'll call you. You don't need to know anything else to do what I'm paying you to do.'"

"His English is better than mine and I was born in Tampa. I didn't think he was born here. There's all that cash on my desk and he can either leave it with me, or take it with him. I'm hooked on his wife. I'd see her, but I'm afraid my wife wouldn't understand."

"Wives rarely do," McCoy said.

"Being on the up and up, I reach in my drawer and pull out the standard contract. 'Fill this out in triplicate and you've got yourself a PI,' I tell him. He stood up and said, 'You fill it out. Do I take my cash to the next guy on my list, or do you want the job?'"

"Looking at the cash, I said, 'I'll take the job.' He left. He was in my office for less than ten minutes."

"What did you do?" McCoy asked.

"Went down and got in my car and I followed him. I might be a sucker for a nice payday, but I'm not stupid. Now, I can tell you, I had no inkling he'd off this dude. I gave him what he asked for. He called a few days later, which would have been later the morning I got that ticket. I gave him what he asked me for." "Early Thursday he waited near where Mason had his tent and when the time was right, he stuck the knife in the guy. No one would report a local murder in the cove in the Tampa media. You'd have no reason to suspect what the guy was going to do," McCoy said.

"I got the ticket on my car and you got me," he said. "And now you have Mr. Pak."

"You're going to show me where you followed him to?"

"Yeah, you can ride with me this morning. I have documents to deliver this morning. I'm not investigating anything for the attorney's office at the moment. It'll take maybe an hour. I'll take you where Pak led me. I got his name from a shop keeper in the Asian neighborhood where he has a shop."

"You don't make enough to pay the bills and you are working for attorneys?"

"I'm not Paul Drake, obviously, I'm not kept in a fancy office by someone like Perry Mason, but I do have two daughters who will need to go to college one day. The attorney pay goes into their college fund," Ortiz explained. "I pay the bills on what my own clients are paying me."

"I've got two daughters," McCoy said.

"I have a coffee maker, but I make lousy coffee. I have a bakery where I stop at for coffee and something to eat with it. They have excellent coffee, so I don't even try to make coffee for myself."

"I remember your stop at the bakery," McCoy said.

"The picture," McCoy said. "I'd like to see her picture."

Ortiz opened his top drawer and put the picture where McCoy could see the picture of Pak's wife.

"She would most definitely stand out in a crowd. Looks to kill for is an insult to such beauty," McCoy said.

"Every bit as beautiful when you see her for real. Sometimes a picture can be made more glamorous than the real thing. The camera does not capture Carmelita's beauty. I imagine a lot of men have fallen in love with sweet Carmelita."

"She met with Mason?" McCoy asked.

"Saturday night. She spent the night at his place. I didn't stay outside all night. I came back in the morning to take her back to where she left her car, once they were done. She lives at the address on the back of the picture. He wanted me to follow Mason once I saw her with the man she was meeting. That's where you come in. Can you imagine, I'm out in the sticks. I mean there is nothing around but water and trees. I walked down the path this guy walks down and I stand and watch him put up his tent by lantern light. I go back to my car. Pak calls Monday. He tells me to go back and keep an eye on him. Pak will call Wednesday and he wants to know where he is. That's what I do. I never felt like he intended to kill the guy."

"On that first day, where'd you follow Pak to in Tampa?" McCoy asked.

"He stopped at a shop once he parked his car. I followed him around the corner to a shop he went into. I watched through the window as he talked to the woman in Stuff & Such. It was a casual conversation. He bought nothing and I went into the shop right after he left. I had a hunch the proprietor would know his name. She did. Nice lady, Sufi. She told me her name. His name is Cho Pak. She sent me to the next street over and a block down to Pak Rats. It's a thrift store of some kind. He was inside. I watched him passing the window. Carmelita came after about an hour. They talked and she left. I left. I wasn't suspicious. I wanted to know who I was working for. Nothing I saw alerted me to what he intended to do. His wife was having an affair and he wanted to know with whom. He didn't want me to know who he was. I could live with that. I did the responsible thing."

McCoy didn't say anything. Ortiz might have solved his case for him. It wasn't a hard trail to follow, but without that parking ticket, there was no trail to follow.

"The guy came back? You told him where Mason went?"

"I had two lists of the places where he'd been, and the places where she went while I followed her. I told him where they met. Once they met, I followed him. Pak called. He was only in my office once. I told him about following him to the campgrounds. I gave him a detailed account of how to get there. He did seem quite interested in a description of the campgrounds."

"Where's the Asian section of town? I'm from Chicago."

"I'll show you. I'll show you his shop and where Sufi's shop is. She's a good source of information. The Asian community is close knit. They know each other. The families spend time together. It's why I thought the proprietor of Stuff & Such knew who Pak was. Once I take care of my deliveries, I'll go with you and walk you through what I did when I followed Pak there."

Ivan's deck was such a large part of Clay's life, he began going up to Ivan's to sit before going to bed. With Dylan being out of school, there was no reason for him to stay at the Conservancy house. He went to Ivan's to feel closer to him and Dylan came up to sleep on the deck in what was perfect weather for sleeping out.

After sleeping at Ivan's Thursday night, Clay and Dylan sat on the deck drinking coffee Clay made. It wasn't nearly as good as the coffee Ivan fixed each morning, but it had to do. At six, Clay drove Dylan to the shop to do the trash with Taggart. Clay drank the coffee Taggart made. It was more like Ivan's and less like his.

Clay could not stay focused on work and he had only been in his laboratory twice by Friday. He called and talked to Harry about what was going on if Harry didn't call him first. Clay knew where they were supposed to be holding Ivan, but Harry could not find out anything about who was holding him. Paperwork was lost or being processed somewhere. No one could say exactly where.

What Clay knew was, he would go back to Tampa Saturday morning and he would stay in Tampa until he saw Ivan. He would find out who had Ivan and under what authority they were holding him. Clay remembered how much he found out earlier in the week.

Harry didn't want to fly home, but he told Clay, "If you need me to fly home to get to the bottom of where the hell Ivan is, I'll do it."

Clay had gone to where the FBI agent sent him, and no one there said anything but that Ivan was being processed.

While Harry was on the phone with Clay, there were things going on in Tampa that neither Harry nor Clay knew about. McCoy began trying to reach Harry the day Ortiz took him to the Asian section in town. They struck gold in Madam Sufi's shop.

Ortiz's story checked out and McCoy needed to try to get Harry. He was overdue on a briefing for the senator.

"Ortiz, I need to make a call before we leave."

Ortiz slid the phone across the desk.

McCoy took the card out of his wallet and placed it on the desk before dialing the number.

"Angus McCoy for the senator," he said, when an operator answered. "Yes, I'm Angus McCoy. The senator is expecting my call."

Ortiz's ears perked up.

"Harry, glad I caught you. McCoy here. I'm on the trail of the killer. I'm in Tampa in the office of Raymond Ortiz. He's a private detective. He's taking me to where I'll take a look at the guy we think killed Mason. Can you let Clay know? I'm not comfortable calling him and I don't have his number. I can call Tag, but there's already too many people involved in what's happening."

"You're sure you are on the trail of the killer?"

"He hired Ortiz to follow Mason. Mason was seeing his wife. On Wednesday last week, Ortiz gave the guy the information that took him right to Mason. Thursday morning, Mason's dead. I'm going to take a look see and when we put the pieces together, I'm going to need a warrant and someone to arrest the guy. I won't be the one to arrest him. That would make things too messy."

"I'll put in a call to the governor. He'll assign a prosecutor who can do what you need. Give me the name that will go on the warrant," Harry said.

"The guy's name, Ortiz?"

"Cho Pak. He owns a shop called Pak Rats."

"Harry, his name is Cho Pak. He owns a business in the Asian section of Tampa. It's called Pak Rats."

"Keep me posted. I still haven't gotten much more on Ivan's whereabouts, except he's being processed somewhere in Tampa."

After Ortiz took care of the things he had to do, they got lunch and drove to the Asian area in Tampa. Ortiz drove to the shop he first followed Pak to, Stuff & Such. He drove the two blocks to Pak Rats. McCoy knew where he was and how to get back there.

"I can't take you into Pak Rats. He'd know something is up if he saw me. We can go back to Madam Sufi's shop and there's something inside I think might interest you."

"By all means, you've been spot on so far, Ortiz. You may well have finished solving this case for me," McCoy said happily.

"Ah, the nice young man who knows Mr. Pak," Madam Sufi said as quickly as Ortiz entered her shop with McCoy in tow.

"Yes, I told my friend about your shop and he just had to see it. He's a collector too, Madam Sufi."

"Look all you like. Should there be a question, be sure to ask me," she said, as Ortiz led McCoy down one of the rows of shelves. They stopped at the back wall, and Ortiz looked up at some items displayed on the back wall.

"I'll be damn. We struck gold. How?" McCoy began to ask is companion.

"I'd seen these the day I came in to ask about Pak's identity. I needed to act like I was interested and while I was roaming around her shop, I saw those knives. When I saw the picture of that knife in Mason's chest, I thought there was something familiar about it, but I couldn't remember from where. While you talked to the senator in my office, it hit me. I'd seen a set of knives in this shop. I still wasn't sure they're the same, but there they are."

"Sufi," McCoy called, and the proprietor appeared.

"I'd like this set of knives," McCoy told her.

"Oh, it is not complete. I can't sell you an incomplete set. I will order a set for you. They're made in Indonesia. Quite unique."

"No, I want this set as is. How much?"

"Who would buy one knife out of a set, Madam Sufi? Why would you sell a single knife that broke up the set of knives?"

"Oh, I wouldn't, but Mr. Pak insisted on the eight inch knife from this set. He gave me fifty dollars for one knife. I sell the entire set for twenty-five dollars. He insisted. I made a fine profit. You want to buy this set of knives?"

"I'll give you fifteen dollars for the four knives in the set. That gives you a little more profit on this incomplete set," McCoy said. "Do you remember when your Mr. Pak bought that knife?"

"Oh, yes. It was last Wednesday. I was getting my weekly accounts ready for the accountant. I do that on Wednesdays."

"You have a good memory," McCoy said.

Madam Sufi blushed. McCoy gave her a ten dollar bill and a five. He reached up and removed the set of knives from the wall."

McCoy was higher than high at how the pieces came together because of Raymond Ortiz. He'd never have stumbled onto the things that Ortiz found out about Pak and the shop he went into.

Back in the car, McCoy wanted to get to Ortiz's office to call Harry to tell him they had everything they needed to convict Pak. Between the testimony of Madam Sufi and Ortiz, Pak was toast, and McCoy would be able to tell Harry that he'd gotten Ivan off the hook.

"Ortiz, you are a man of your word. I would have been stumbling around Tampa for weeks and I'd never have figured out who killed Mason. You've given me all I need in a day of riding around. Let me take you and your family to dinner. I owe you that," McCoy said.

"My wife would not forgive me if I didn't invite you to dinner. Maybe another night you can take us out. You go back to your motel and relax. I'll write down directions to my house. We'll eat at seven and I'll introduce you to my family."

"That's an invitation I look forward to. Can we make a stop by your office, when I get my car, and I can call the senator?"

"Yes, I need to take you to your car. You can call before you go back to your motel."

"I'll feel easier making the call from your phone. This isn't the kind of thing I want to be talking about at a pay phone."

McCoy carried his knife set with him and put it on top of Ortiz's filing cabinet for safe keeping. He dialed Harry's office and after a ten minute wait, Harry came into his office and he took the phone his secretary held out to him."

"Yeah, McCoy, didn't we just talk?" Harry asked.

"Yeah, but I wanted to let you know I've got the case wrapped up. Harry. I even have the set of knifes the knife in Mason's chest came from. I have a woman who can testify she sold it to Cho Pak. I have my friend and private investigator who followed Mason to the cove, and he will testify he gave Pak instructions on how to find Mason there."

"Jesus, McCoy, you don't fool around. I haven't had a chance to call the governor yet. It's Friday afternoon and they aren't going to get a prosecutor for you to talk to until Monday. I'll brief the governor and where do I get back to you?"

"I'll be returning to the cove tomorrow, Harry. Call the shop and have Tag come and get me."

"You're going to need to drive back to Tampa to talk to the prosecutor, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but I want to get my things together. I'll come back here on my way home. I'll return to Chicago next week. I can fly back for the trial if they need my testimony."

"I don't know if I want you in Chicago, McCoy. I might want to put you on staff. You're fast and Clay is going to want to thank you. Ivan too, as quick as we can get him back home."

"Plenty of time for that. I need a shower and a nap. I'm going out to dinner. Talk to you once I'm back at the cove."

McCoy hung up the phone feeling like a million bucks.

McCoy felt awkward going to Ortiz's house. He felt a little guilty about his approach the night before, but Ortiz was one of the good guys and McCoy was happy to meet a professional private detective. He intended to pick his brain about how he could become a PI, but not at dinner. They could meet for one final breakfast before McCoy returned to the cove to prepare to leave for Chicago. He could fly back if he was needed in court on Mason's murder.

Maria Ortiz was a wonderful cook and McCoy was treated to many Mexican delights. His experience with Mexican food was the Americanized version that they got at Mexican restaurants. The authentic version was far more flavorful and he enjoyed each bite.

Before he left, he asked Ortiz to meet him for breakfast in the morning.

"Meet me at my office. I have some things to clean up from yesterday's deliveries," Ortiz told him. "I'll be there at seven. You'll want to put your knives in your car."

As the week was coming to an end, Clay planned to be in Tampa Saturday morning. After dinner Friday, Clay and Dylan walked back up the beach to Ivan's house. They'd been there since the day before when Clay called to say he wasn't going to be at work on Thursday or Friday. He needed to make contact with Ivan before he would be able to get any work done.

Dylan, still serving his suspension from school, stayed close to his one remaining father. There was no yelling, but talking about Ivan ended in an argument over whether he left or was taken. Dylan didn't accept his father's absence wasn't partly his doing. Ivan was gone and only his return would be acceptable to both of them.

Arguing semantics with someone as angry as Dylan served no purpose, but Clay was sure he could parlay Dylan's anger into a winning hand. They might deny Ivan's lover, but they were going to find it a lot more difficult to denying his son. That was Clay's calculation and it was why he decided to take Dylan along.

"Are you going to see Daddy-O tomorrow?" Dylan asked.

"Yes, I'll drive up in the morning. I'll be back tomorrow night," Clay said, knowing where the conversation was going.

"I'm going too, Dad," Dylan said.

"I don't know if Ivan wants you to see him in jail."

"He left. He doesn't get to say what I do. I want to see my father."

"I guess if anyone is entitled to see him, you are. We'll leave around five. We can get breakfast on the way."

"Kewl," Dylan said, standing and going to the railing to look out at the darkening waters of the Gulf.

"Why is this happening?" Dylan asked. "We can prove Dad didn't do anything. Why won't they listen to us?"

Clay stood beside his son. He looked out at the waters that were at the center of his life. There was an endless beauty to the Gulf of Mexico. They were lucky enough to be part of it.

"I don't know how, but this is going to pass, Dylan. Your father will come home. That's what we need to remember," Clay said.

"How can you be so sure?" Dylan said.

"Because we're here. Because he loves us, and this is where his home is."

Saturday morning, after checking out of his motel, McCoy drove toward Ortiz's office building. He saw the blue lights flashing two blocks away on the flat boulevard. As he drove closer, he realized there were police cars parked in front of Ortiz's office building. The bottom fell out of his stomach as he looked for a place to park.

When McCoy parked, he had a sudden feeling of panic.

"Ortiz," he said as he got out of his car and he ran into the building and he avoided the cops by running up the stairs and he ran right into the arms of a Tampa police officer who was waiting for him to come out the door that lead to the stairs.

"Let me go. I'm on the job. Ortiz!" McCoy yelled as he was being thrown back against the wall by two uniforms.

"Ortiz!" McCoy yelled down the hallway.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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