Florida Firefight by Randy Wayne White Page A

help—”
    â€œThe Colombians are helping you, aren’t they? The people in this town aren’t dumb. You drive a big new car and own a big new houseboat. They can put two and two together. So can we, Simps. Maybe some friends of mine at the IRS should get down here and do a net-worth investigation—”
    â€œShit, not that, Hawker—or whoever you are.” Simps had grabbed his arm. He was pleading. “Look, they forced me. They threatened me and my wife. I’ll do anything. I’ll turn state’s evidence. You just name it, and I’ll do it.”
    Hawker pulled away from him. “You’ve got a murder to investigate, Chief Simps. Hadn’t you better get started? Or do you just sort of turn your head when one of your Colombian friends kills an innocent woman?”
    â€œAnything,” Simps whispered feverishly. “I’ll do anything. Christ, I’ve got grandkids. Don’t send me to jail.”
    â€œThat woman with the knife in her eye had more courage in her little finger than a dozen of your kind, Simps,” Hawker said coldly. The hook was in, and Hawker set it. “Unfortunately, I’m going to be needing you. I’ll tell you when, where and what. Until then, investigate your murder.”
    Simps turned away, grateful. His face was shiny with sweat. But then his cop instincts made him look at Hawker again. “You didn’t show me any identification. How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
    â€œI don’t remember telling you I was anything but owner of the Tarpon Inn.” There was a metallic edge to Hawker’s voice. “And that’s the way it’s going to stay. Personally I’d like to see you trucked off with the others when we finally clean this place out. It’s up to you.”
    â€œI’ll help,” Chief Ben Simps said quickly. “I’ll help and I won’t ask any more questions.”
    Simps adjusted his gun belt. He hurried away toward the corpse.

thirteen
    â€œDid you learn anything about explosives in the Marines?”
    Hawker and Logan walked beneath trees down the boulevard toward the Tarpon Inn.
    It was 3 A.M.
    â€œI was a cook.”
    Hawker knew he was lying. His computer check had told him Logan had been a Marine sergeant, twice winner of the Bronze Star. On his last tour in Nam, he had been placed with a squad of Navy SEALS. He was a demolitions expert. From the gaps in his record, Hawker guessed he had also done some work for I-Corps, military intelligence. Hawker now began to suspect he worked for the FBI—or the CIA.
    Someone else had been monitoring the activities of the South Americans. Hawker wondered if it was Logan.
    â€œWhat kind of cook?”
    â€œA very good one.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t kill the Colombian?”
    Logan gave him a warning look. He had already answered his share of questions. Chief Ben Simps had done a professional and complete preliminary investigation, probably to impress Hawker. Through an arrangement with Monroe County, Mahogany Key’s county, Collier County had sent a coroner’s wagon for the bodies. Simps had questioned Winnie Tiger and Logan individually. He had asked them the same things over and over.
    Their answers were always the same. Winnie had been in bed, listening to the stereo. She had had no idea what had happened until Logan pounded on the door. Logan said he had been on the way to Sandy Rand’s apartment when he heard a scream. He couldn’t tell if it was a man screaming or a woman. Both Sandy and the Colombian were dead when he got there.
    â€œSo who killed the Colombian?”
    Logan’s eyes burrowed into Hawker’s. “Didn’t you? The way you planted the knife was pretty slick. You’re no amateur, Hawker. I figure you’re just trying to protect your cover—and I don’t even want to guess why. But you’re more than just the new owner of the Tarpon