On Saturday, Clay got up while it was still dark. He wasted no time hitting the road. He was taking Dylan with him to Tampa this time. He parked outside the building he'd been directed to by Special Agent Holcomb. He wasn't sure this was where they'd find Ivan, but when he inquired, no one could be sure where Ivan was being held.

They were checked by the guard at the gate, and by another guard outside the door they went in. They walked down the long hallway that led to the reception area. The room was empty and a different receptionist sat behind the counter that separated her from the people who sat in the chairs to wait.

Clay took the same orange plastic chair he'd sat in on his last visit. Dylan sat next to him. Clay had no way of knowing if they'd see Ivan or not. He brought Dylan in case it was or not. Their son had been doing a slow burn. He was angry without having anyone to be angry with. He was getting angrier. Now he patiently waited.

Clay told Dylan about his first visit and how he waited all day before being told he wouldn't be seeing Ivan. He was told to come back on Saturday and they'd finish with Ivan's processing by then. Dylan spent two months away from Ivan the summer before. He made the decision to do that. It was an incredible learning experience. He worked with a professional filmmaker, as well as with his father and Bill Payne. The summer away taught Dylan more than all his years in school, and everything he learned interested him.

Dylan didn't say the words, but by the time they left the Horizon to fly home to get Dylan ready for school in August, Dylan was ready to go home. He missed Mama and Pop and Aunt Lucy, but most of all, he missed Daddy-O.

It was Dylan's decision to go, but he was happy to go home. Ivan had been out of reach for over a week, and it was a week too long for Dylan. He knew his father didn't do anything but he didn't know what to do about it. Seeing Daddy-O could clear his mind.

Clay and Dylan knew Ivan was innocent. Ivan went about his business last week. No one asked them where Ivan was Thursday morning. He was drinking coffee with them when Mason was being murdered.

For years, up until the last year or two, they'd warned Ivan not to leave the cove. He hadn't gone anywhere. Since coming home from Southeast Asia, Ivan busied himself creating an economic zone out of the cove.

Fort Myers being about as far away as he got any day, until now. Being out of reach for over a week was not acceptable to Dylan, and he'd come to Tampa to see his father.

Dylan took the seat beside his other father and looked through the magazines on a pile on a nearby table. He stood and went through them, finding nothing that interested him.

Clay hadn't argued with Dylan when he said he was coming along. There was going to be a chemical reaction if they were stonewalled today. What form that would take, Clay had no idea. He'd never seen Dylan lose control. In some ways Dylan was more mature than either of his fathers. Clay was sure he got his poise from Sunshine. He didn't get it from Clay or Ivan.

Clay took Dylan with him because he had the right to know what was happening to his father. If Clay lost control, he'd end up in jail, and probably not the one where they were holding Ivan. Between the two of them, Clay had a hunch, if he was here, they'd see him today.

Clay followed procedures. He'd reported into the receptionist, and she said, "If you'll take a seat. I'll call upstairs."

"This is my son, Dylan," Clay said as the indifferent receptionist looked at Clay and Dylan. "He came to see his father."

The receptionist smiled her plastic smile of indifference. She picked up the phone and turned her back to talk on it.

After sitting for five minutes, Dylan went to stand in front of the receptionist's counter. After checking out the desk and the things on it, Dylan spoke to her, "I came to see my father."

He was polite but firm and Clay heard him.

"That's nice," she said as if he was ten-years-old.

Dylan went to sit beside his Clay. He stood up and went through the magazines again. Maybe he'd missed something interesting. He sat back down without a magazine. He hadn't missed anything.

Dylan said louder, "I'm here to see my father."

She smiled and picked up the phone, swiveling until her back was turned to them again.

Clay thought it was all quite natural. The receptionist knew who they were there to see. She wrote Ivan's name down. She knew Dylan wanted to see his father.

"Someone will be down in a few minutes," the receptionist reported. "Sorry it's taking this long."

"That's OK," Clay said patiently.

"I'm here to see my father," Dylan said loud enough for them to hear him without benefit of a phone. "I'd like to see him today."

She smiled uncomfortably. She didn't know if he was dangerous, but he'd become quite loud.

"I want to see my father," Dylan said with more intensity entering his voice and he stood to go through the magazines again.

Dylan walked in a circle around to the other side of the pile of magazines. Maybe if he looked from that side, he'd find something.

Clay smiled.

The receptionist picked up the phone to report the natives were getting restless.

"You can ask if they've talked to Senator Harry McCallister yet, while you have them on the phone?" Clay ordered. "I'll be with him the next time I come here. I'd advise you to get someone off their lazy asses and get me a meeting with Ivan Aleksa, Sweetheart."

For emphasis, Dylan added in what was just short of a scream, "I want to see my fucking father."

If they didn't hear him, they were deaf.

Clay smiled.

"Language, Dylan," Clay corrected his irate son.

He yelled a second time, "I want to see my father."

"That's better," Clay said as his ears rang.

He wanted to hug his son for being just enough out of control to get someone's attention but not enough for them to call the police.

When the tall thin mortician like man came through the door in a rush, Dylan didn't wait for him to speak.

"I want to see my fucking father, and I want to see him now. We've been waiting for an hour. What's the hold up, Uncle Fester."

"Excuse me, you can't be yelling in here. We have rules," the mortician corrected Dylan.

"I don't give a damn about your rules. You've got my father and I want to see him," Dylan said into the man's face.

The mortician looked at Clay for some help.

Clay shrugged indifference.

"Don't look at me," Clay said. "He wants to see his father. I'd get him if I were you. We've been dicked around for long enough, and I'm serious about having Senator McCallister with me the next time I come up here. He'll fly home if I ask him to, but you don't want me to ask him to. Not if you don't want this placed closed up."

"I want to see my father now," Dylan said firmly in a polite voice.

"I'm not in charge," the man said. "I mean I am, but I can't say who visits whom. That comes from upstairs. It's Saturday. I'm trying to reach someone." the mortician said, rushing back through the door he came out of.

Dylan said politely to the receptionist, "I came to see my father."

The receptionist got up and went through the other door.

Clay got up and tried both doors.

"Locked," he said.

"What kind of place is this, Dad? Why isn't anyone else waiting?"

Before Clay could answer, the mortician was back. This time he held the door open for Clay and Dylan to go through.

"Where are we going?" Clay asked, not wanting to be locked up if it could be avoided.

"To the interview room. Mr. Aleksa is coming along shortly."

Clay still wondered if they might be locked inside whatever room they were being taken to, but he doubted they were that stupid. They knew by now that he wasn't joking about bringing Harry back with him. Someone upstairs would have checked on Clay's connection to the senator by this time. It's probably why they were being allowed to see Ivan.

There were two metal chairs in the room and a metal table. Both of them sat. Clay was expecting to be sitting there for a while, but in a few minutes the door swung open and Ivan stepped inside.

A very large man filled the doorway behind Ivan.

Before Ivan took the second step into the room, Dylan had a hold of Daddy-O before he got any further. He was sobbing on Ivan's shoulder like someone half his age might do. A week's worth of anger and uncertainty boiled out of their son. Seeing his father was alive and well was a relief.

It was all the emotions he'd been holding back. Dylan was just about as big as Ivan now, and he had a hold that was hard to break.

"Dad, you left me," Dylan sobbed.

Dylan's grip told Ivan his son was more than a little distraught.

Ivan took Dylan's shoulder, moving him back to see into his face.

"I never left you. I'll never leave you. I was taken away, Dylan. I had nothing to do with it. Don't ever say I left you. It's not true," Ivan said in total control of his message.

"Yes, Sir," Dylan said, stepping out of Clay's way.

Clay composed himself by the time his arms were around Ivan, but he wasn't completely at ease until Ivan's arms were around him.

"I love you so much," Clay whispered in Ivan's ear.

"I love you, babe. Don't ask me what is going on. I don't know," Ivan revealed as Roland stood watching the reunion.

"Roland, come in here," Ivan ordered, and the big man stepped inside the little room.

"This is my partner and my son. This is Roland. He's taking care of me. We eat together twice a day. He's a good man, but he cheats at rummy."

"I don't cheat. You play badly," Roland objected.

"Yeah, I do. Say hello to my family."

"Hi," Roland said. "I'll let you have some privacy."

Clay sat down and looked around. Ivan and Clay held hands across the table. Ivan stared at Clay's face. Clay felt better once he saw Ivan was OK.

Dylan leaned his back against the wall behind Clay. He watched his fathers. He was still angry. He felt better after seeing Ivan.

"Harry says you aren't in the system. He's had people checking all week. He told me McCoy was making progress, but he couldn't say how long it might take to nail the killer."

"The FBI drove me to Tampa. They handed me over to federal marshals, and they brought me here. Roland says I'm the only one he's taking care of. They've questioned me, but it's a joke. They appear and five minutes later they disappear. I don't think they know what to do with me. They seem to be waiting for instructions," Ivan said. "I asked for a lawyer and a phone call. I've gotten neither. I haven't been taken in front of a judge. Roland has been kind to me, but I'm sure he doesn't know anything. His job is watching me."

"That's unconstitutional. "You've got rights," Dylan objected.

"Whatever this place is, it isn't prison. I'm not in a cell. I guess it's like a cell. They'll tell me what they want from me when they're ready. No one has told me why I'm being held," Ivan said.

"I've been brought to this room a half dozen times. I'm here for ten or fifteen minutes, they ask me the same questions over and over. Roland brings me here and walks me back to my room. I've never been in handcuffs since they brought me here."

"That's illegal. You weren't advised of your rights?"

"No, Babe. The FBI said nothing to me. The marshals said nothing to me. Roland talks a lot, but he doesn't know anything. He doesn't know who he works for. His check is blank where the employer's name should be. There are a series of numbers in that spot. Makes no sense to me but whoever has me isn't too worried with rules or rights."

"McCoy's working on the case. Harry said he's heard from him and he's making progress. Harry said, 'Help's on the way."

"It's difficult to see how this ends," Ivan said. "I'm so isolated in here, I don't know if it's day or night."

"Bill Payne called. He wants Dylan and me to go along on this summer's research trip. I'm going to let Dylan go. He learned a lot last summer. I think it will be good for him."

"Sounds like a good idea," Ivan said, reading Clay's mind.

"You weren't going to let me go? I've asked you and you only said, 'We'll see.' Why are you going to let me go now? You want me out of your hair?"

"You don't want to go? Fine. I'll tell Bill you changed your mind," Clay said. "He was planning to show you around the university before flying to San Francisco. He'll be disappointed, but it's your decision, Dylan. I'm sure Logan will be disappointed."

"I didn't say I didn't want to go. I want to go," Dylan retorted, and he knew when to shut up.

"What are we arguing about then?" Clay asked.

Dylan wasn't sure if he'd been had or not but he'd been dreaming about another trip into the Pacific, and another two months of working with Logan.

"School's out next week. The week after Bill wants me to take Dylan to the university. He'll give us a tour of the new facilities there, and I'll return to the cove and Dylan will stay there."

"Kewl!" Dylan said.

"I should be home and this will all be over by the time you return from the summer's research trip," Ivan said.

"You better be," Dylan said as an order for Daddy-O.

Angus McCoy saw the lights of the Tampa police cars two blocks away from Raymond Ortiz's Detective Agency. He parked before he reached the first police cruisers. When he hit the front door, he diverted his path to run to the stairs and start up without being slowed down.

A maneuver he used in Chicago to keep from being delayed, was only partially successful. He got to the third floor without being stopped, but as quick as he came through the door on the third floor, he was bounced off the wall by two uniforms who were waiting for him to come out of the stairwell.

McCoy wasn't the kind of cop who got emotional, no matter what happened, but he'd gotten involved with Ortiz, and he was immediately fearful that he would find him on the floor of his office, and that sent a panic through him.

"Ortiz!" McCoy yelled in the pain of his realization.

He was expecting someone to say, 'He's beyond hearing you.'

"He's all right, Bobby," Ortiz yelled down the hallway. "He's the guy I've been working with on the murder I told you about. Let him come up."

One of the cops who body slammed McCoy against the wall, brushed him off and smiled an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Mack. Just doing my job."

"Let him come up," Bobby told the uniform from the door of his office. "He's OK."

"Go on. He says you're OK, you're OK," the uniform said.

McCoy stopped at the door to Ortiz's office. The office had been tossed. The desk was upside down in the corner with two legs bent under its metal frame. The file cabinet was on its side. All the drawers were out and scattered around the office. The pile of ashes represented what once were Ortiz's files.

McCoy looked up at Ortiz. He was sitting on his undamaged chair that once sat behind the upside down desk. It was the only thing in the room that hadn't been destroyed.

"The way I found it when I came in this morning. They even got my extra piece. I kept a spare, just in case," Ortiz said. "I'd ask you to sit down, McCoy, but I'm sitting in the only chair left."

"Who? Why?" McCoy said. "Who is out to get you, Ray? You never indicated you were into anything dangerous. All I saw you doing is picking up envelopes."

Ortiz held out a partially burned tab that went on one of the burned files. He tossed it to McCoy for him to read.

"O PAK," McCoy said. "Cho Pak. The knives? Did they get the knives?"

"Gone. It's all gone. The open and shut case we were building? That's gone. Nothing is left to prove Cho Pak did the deed, McCoy. I can recreate my files, but they won't be my original notes, and they left that tab as a warning. That tab can also be seen as a threat. Did you get the message, McCoy?"

"We've got Madam Sufi?" McCoy said. "I've got you."

"Yeah, Sufi goes into court and says, 'Yes, maybe it looks like the knife Pak bought from me. Maybe not. It does looks familiar.' You know how far that will get us in front of a prosecutor? They took or destroyed any concrete evidence we had, McCoy. We're done here."

"Who'd you tell about what we'd found out? Did Madam Sufi go to Pak and tell him what we were after?"

"She wouldn't know Pak hired me. Who would she say was asking? No, it wasn't Sufi. I haven't talked to anyone about this case but you. I've been with you since I followed you to the restaurant where we first met up."

McCoy looked around the room. He looked at Ortiz. He turned and looked at Bobby standing in the doorway listening to them.

"Phone?" McCoy asked, his mind spinning like a top.

"I don't know. Try it. It's on the floor over behind the filing cabinet. It alright if he touches it, Bobby?"

"Sure thing. These guys were pro. We aren't going to get anything. We're getting prints off the doors and the stuff we knew they touched, but we won't find the prints of the boys who did this."

McCoy picked up the phone once he sat next to it. The idea Ortiz's phone was tapped crossed his mind. They'd only worked together for two days. Who could get a tap done that fast? It made no sense to him as he sat looking at the phone.

"Your phone is tapped?" McCoy finally said. "Can they check? I didn't tell anyone what I was doing, Ray. How would anyone know you were connected to the Mason murder. You told no one?"

"No one. I've been with you since yesterday morning. You were with me at my house last night. Who did you tell?" Ortiz asked.

McCoy took the card out of his pocket and dialed the number.

"Yeah, this is McCoy. I was trying to get Senator McCallister. Didn't figure anyone would be there," McCoy said, hanging up.

"It makes no sense," McCoy said. "Your phone has to be tapped. The only person I've talked to about what I'm doing is the senator. I didn't know anything until yesterday and we've been together."

"Strike two, McCoy. I was in the communication division at Tampa PD. I check my phones before I use them if I've been out. I also know if anything in my office has been tampered with, and it usually isn't as obvious as the tossing my office took last night."

Ortiz got up and took the receiver off the phone McCoy was holding. He unscrewed the mouthpiece and turned it so McCoy could peer inside.

"Very nice. What are you showing me?"

"No bug. It's clean," Ortiz said, screwing the mouth piece back on and handing it to McCoy.

When McCoy put the receiver back on the phone, it rang.

McCoy held the phone out to Ortiz.

"It's your senator. No one calls me at seven on Saturday. He has a service. He was to be notified if you called," Ortiz explained.

McCoy picked up, not believing for a minute it was for him.

"Ortiz Detective Agency," McCoy said hesitantly.

"McCoy. You answering phones for you private dick?"

"No. How'd you get the message I called so fast?" McCoy asked.

"My service called me. I asked to be notified if you called. I'm right in the middle of what you're up to in Tampa, McCoy. This is going to make Clayton very happy with you. You called?"

"I did. Harry, I'm going to ask you a question. I'd appreciate an honest answer," McCoy said.

"Shoot," Harry said.

"I want you to be honest with me. Are your phones safe?"

"My phones? I have one secure phone in my office. I have it checked for bugs routinely. It's the phone I use to do anything I wouldn't want the Ruskies listening in on."

"Tell me that you were on the secure phone yesterday both times when we talked, Harry."

"No, I was in the main office both times. I took the call on the office phone system," Harry said. "What's up."

"Ortiz's office was tossed. Broken into. They took the knives and burned his files. They left a partially burned tab for Cho Pak's file. That wasn't an accident. That was a warning. Who do you suspect is listening to your calls? Who would have the ability to tap the phones in a senator's office, Harry?"

"I don't know who, but I have a good idea. Where do we stand?"

"Dead in the water. They destroyed Ortiz's files. He can recreate what he can remember about it, but no prosecutor is going to touch it. We don't have diddlysquat. Ivan is right back on the hook. I can't prove Cho Pak killed Mason. Who does that benefit besides Pak?"

The senator hung up. McCoy sat on the floor with the phone on his lap. He should have never told the senator what he had, because now he had nothing.

Ortiz heard every word. He had nothing to say about it.

"Let's take a ride, Ray," McCoy said. "I don't want to sit here. This is too damn depressing."

"Where to, McCoy. They're waiting to dust for prints. They don't expect to find anything, but who knows. Maybe this wasn't a professional job and they left fingerprints all over the place."

"I want to drive by Pak Rats. Let's go and accuse him to his face. I want to look Cho Pak in the eye and say, "I'm a cop, and I know you killed Mason. I know why you killed him, and I even know where you bought the knife you killed him with. I got you by the balls, Sucker."

"What if it was Pak who did this and he knows you don't have jack shit?"

"No, this is not something a killer is going to risk doing. If his ass was backed up against the wall, maybe he tries something stupid.

It would point directly at him if he did. No, this goes beyond Pak," McCoy said. "I report to the senator, and someone wants to know what the senator is seeing."

"You're reaching, McCoy. A conspiracy to convict the wrong man in a murder is a bit farfetched, even for government work."

"Depends on what they're after," McCoy said. "They aren't after Pak. They don't care he killed Mason. They don't care we know he did it. They care more about us not being able to prove it. Let's try all we have left. We can shake him up, even if we don't get a confession."

"You think he'll cry and say, 'I didn't mean to kill him,' McCoy?"

"Something like that. We can stop at the bakery and take our coffee and pastry to front of Pak Rats until he shows up."

While it was a good plan, nothing in this case made sense. Once they pulled up across the street and a few shops down from the shop in question, McCoy immediately saw something he didn't like.

"You watch my coffee. Don't eat my pastry, Ray," McCoy quipped.

McCoy went to the window of Pak Rats. Putting his hands up on the sides of his eyes, he looked inside. He couldn't believe his eyes.

He looked toward Ortiz and waved for him to come over.

A kid on a bike passed behind McCoy on the sidewalk. He'd been riding back and forth since they'd parked up the street. The kid watched McCoy walk to the shop and look in. That drew him to peddling past him a second time.

"They's gone," the kid said, riding behind McCoy and toward the end of the block.

Ortiz stood beside McCoy and he looked into the shop.

"Son of a bitch. What the hell is going on, McCoy?"

"We're driving up a blind alley. Where do you think he went?"

"They's gone, I told you," the kid said, riding behind them.

The next time the kid passed, Ortiz grabbed hold of him and lifted him off his bike.

"Get off me. Who you think you is? You don't be grabbing no one," the eight or nine-year-old kid said.

"Where'd they go?" Ortiz asked, putting him down on his feet.

"You think all I got to be doing is answer your questions. Man? That ain't how it works around here. What's it worth to you?"

The kid came up short as Ortiz tucked a five dollar bill into the kid's shirt pocket.

"That ain't going to buy much. They moved out."

McCoy handed the kid another five dollar bill.

"Now we're talking."

"Where'd they go?" McCoy asked.

"Who are you?" Ortiz tried.

"I'm Cocoa Puff, because I eat 'em. You're cops. I get that."

"Tell me what you know. I got another five if I like your story. If I like it a lot, I've got bigger bills that might interest you," McCoy said.

"I work for my aunt down at the bakery. Two blocks down this street. I go to work at three on Saturdays. There was a moving van here when I came to work. It was all black. No markings on it."

"You see the guys who moved his stuff?" Ortiz asked.

"Man, five dollars don't get you all I know, Jack."

McCoy gave the kid another five dollars. Ortiz did likewise. The story was just getting good.

"Four of them. Tall skinny dudes. Porcupine haircuts. They was wearing suits," Cocoa Puff said. "What kind of movers wear suits?"

"Crew cuts," McCoy said. "What else did you see?"

"I come back two hours later. It was after five. I sat to watch those guys finish cleaning out Pak's place."

"You see Pak?" Ortiz asked.

"No, he wasn't anywhere around. Just the dudes in suits."

"Did you hear them say anything. Like where they were taking the stuff?"

"Nothing like that. They didn't talk. Still dark and they're wearing those sunglasses you can see yourself in. Who wears sunglasses at night? Weird. Who moves in the middle of the night anyway? They weren't stealing that stuff, were they? You're cops, aren't you?"

McCoy handed Cocoa Puff another five and Ortiz did too.

"Beat it, Kid," Ortiz said. "You don't know nothing if anyone else asks you what you know about this. You sold what you knew to us."

"Thank you," Cocoa Puff said, going to get on his bike.

"Well, McCoy, where to?"

"Chicago, here I come. I can solve a murder case even when obstacles are set in my way. I can't solve a case when someone checkmates every move I make. There's a time to stand and fight, and there's a time to go home to the wife and kids. It's time for the latter, Ray. I've enjoyed working with you for the day and a half we've been at this. You're a good man to know."

"Come back when you're ready, McCoy. I'll teach you the trade. We could make beautiful music together. I like your style. You remember I made you this offer, you hear?"

"I've got ten years to do before I can retire," McCoy said.

"Perfect. I've got about thirty years before I can retire."

"I'll remember you, Ortiz. I might take you up on your offer. I'd love the romance and adventure of being a big time PI."

Ortiz laughed.

"Since we're down here, let's go wait for Madam Sufi to open her shop. She just might know something, McCoy," Ortiz suggested.

"She doesn't know anything. Pak didn't know what was coming."

"This is my town. These are my people. I need to know."

"You are a glutton for punishment. What do we do if she tells us Pak came by. Said he'd be taking a vacation?"

"I live here, McCoy. You can go to Chicago. I can't. I got to know the good guys are safe and the bad guys are locked up."

"Whoever is pulling the strings doesn't care about you, or me, and probably not Pak. They want a certain outcome. That's what they're going to get, Ray. The fix is in. Wake up and smell the coffee," McCoy said, turning his back on Pak's shop, and stepping into the street."

They walked back to Ortiz's car.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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