the path. A dead woman was propped against the tree, hands folded demurely in her lap. She was middle aged, possibly older, blonde hair that was two shades too bright to be natural, a thinness bordering on emaciation, tattoos on her arms and shoulders. She was nude and a rope snaked around her torso holding her to the trunk of the tree.
I recognized the three Longboat Key officers as men who would have been on the night shift, their tour coming to an end. Steve Carey was standing alone a couple of yards from the other officers. He nodded as Jock and I came up. “Morning, Steve,” I said. “Know anything yet?”
“No. J.D. just got here. We’re waiting for the forensic guys.”
J.D. saw us and walked over. I handed her the cup of coffee I’d brought, knowing she’d need it. She smiled. “Thanks, Matt.”
“Is it the same M.O.?” asked Jock.
“It is,” J.D. said. “Shot in the back of the head, small caliber slug, no exit wound.”
“And the whale tail earring?”
“Yeah. And the initials in the back of her neck.”
“I guess I did shoot the wrong man on Saturday,” said Jock. “Qualman was just a hired gun.”
J.D. shook her head. “The man you shot was trying to kill me, Jock. But I don’t understand your argument. If Qualman didn’t kill Nell Alexander, why did he have her BMW?”
“I think he killed Nell,” said Jock, “but he was just the messenger. I think whoever is running this show may be after you, and Nell was just a random kill. Something to get your attention, to draw you toward the Miami killings.”
Steve Carey had been looking toward the victim as we talked. I wasn’t paying any attention until I heard him yell, “Hey.”
I looked up in time to see him knocked to the ground, blood pouring from his left shoulder. In the same instant, I heard the crack of a rifle coming from the east, farther down the sand track that formed the southern fork in the path. Everyone hit the ground, a trained response to the sound of gunfire. J.D. was already moving toward Steve, and I had risen to my knee, pistol drawn, beginning to point toward the sound of the rifle, when it cracked again. Anyone who has been in combat, and I have, knows the sound of a round whizzing near your head. That sound took me back to the ground. In the second I was on my knee, I had seen two men in the distance, perhaps a hundred feet away at the point where the southern fork intersected with a boardwalk that ran down to a viewing platform at the water’s edge.
J.D. was next to Steve, who had not moved since he hit the ground. “He’s breathing,” she shouted. “We’ve got to get that sniper.”
Cops were coming alive now, firing from their prone positions. Jock was moving at a crouch through the trees and bushes that bordered the path. Seconds had passed since the first shot and Jock hadn’t gotten very far. The rifle fire had stopped, and I could see only one man on the path. He was holding a weapon, bringing it into firing position.
A hail of automatic fire came our way. It was high and I could hear the slugs ripping through the foliage above us. Everybody put their heads down again. No one wanted to be standing if the shooter brought the muzzle lower. He ripped off a fusillade and then disappeared. I stood, as did a couple of the other cops. The man stepped back into the path and fired again, a short burst, high. We went back to the ground. Jock hadn’t moved. He was still in the foliage, but only a few feet down the path. The man ducked toward the boardwalk, and seconds later, reappeared and let go another short burst.
The shooter disappeared again, and this time, he stayed gone. Nobody moved for a minute or so. We didn’t know if he was coming back. Jock moved a few feet down the path, still in the bushes. Another minute passed, and then I heard the roar of high-powered marine engines coming from the bay to the south of us where a sheltered anchorage lay.
Jock was moving at a run along the path. I
I recognized the three Longboat Key officers as men who would have been on the night shift, their tour coming to an end. Steve Carey was standing alone a couple of yards from the other officers. He nodded as Jock and I came up. “Morning, Steve,” I said. “Know anything yet?”
“No. J.D. just got here. We’re waiting for the forensic guys.”
J.D. saw us and walked over. I handed her the cup of coffee I’d brought, knowing she’d need it. She smiled. “Thanks, Matt.”
“Is it the same M.O.?” asked Jock.
“It is,” J.D. said. “Shot in the back of the head, small caliber slug, no exit wound.”
“And the whale tail earring?”
“Yeah. And the initials in the back of her neck.”
“I guess I did shoot the wrong man on Saturday,” said Jock. “Qualman was just a hired gun.”
J.D. shook her head. “The man you shot was trying to kill me, Jock. But I don’t understand your argument. If Qualman didn’t kill Nell Alexander, why did he have her BMW?”
“I think he killed Nell,” said Jock, “but he was just the messenger. I think whoever is running this show may be after you, and Nell was just a random kill. Something to get your attention, to draw you toward the Miami killings.”
Steve Carey had been looking toward the victim as we talked. I wasn’t paying any attention until I heard him yell, “Hey.”
I looked up in time to see him knocked to the ground, blood pouring from his left shoulder. In the same instant, I heard the crack of a rifle coming from the east, farther down the sand track that formed the southern fork in the path. Everyone hit the ground, a trained response to the sound of gunfire. J.D. was already moving toward Steve, and I had risen to my knee, pistol drawn, beginning to point toward the sound of the rifle, when it cracked again. Anyone who has been in combat, and I have, knows the sound of a round whizzing near your head. That sound took me back to the ground. In the second I was on my knee, I had seen two men in the distance, perhaps a hundred feet away at the point where the southern fork intersected with a boardwalk that ran down to a viewing platform at the water’s edge.
J.D. was next to Steve, who had not moved since he hit the ground. “He’s breathing,” she shouted. “We’ve got to get that sniper.”
Cops were coming alive now, firing from their prone positions. Jock was moving at a crouch through the trees and bushes that bordered the path. Seconds had passed since the first shot and Jock hadn’t gotten very far. The rifle fire had stopped, and I could see only one man on the path. He was holding a weapon, bringing it into firing position.
A hail of automatic fire came our way. It was high and I could hear the slugs ripping through the foliage above us. Everybody put their heads down again. No one wanted to be standing if the shooter brought the muzzle lower. He ripped off a fusillade and then disappeared. I stood, as did a couple of the other cops. The man stepped back into the path and fired again, a short burst, high. We went back to the ground. Jock hadn’t moved. He was still in the foliage, but only a few feet down the path. The man ducked toward the boardwalk, and seconds later, reappeared and let go another short burst.
The shooter disappeared again, and this time, he stayed gone. Nobody moved for a minute or so. We didn’t know if he was coming back. Jock moved a few feet down the path, still in the bushes. Another minute passed, and then I heard the roar of high-powered marine engines coming from the bay to the south of us where a sheltered anchorage lay.
Jock was moving at a run along the path. I
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