Lonesome Cove

By Gary Showalter

"Lonesome Cove", my fourth novel, fully two years’ worth of research, writing, editing and rewriting, is now available for purchase. It is a tale about the search for a missing woman, the granddaughter of a Mob hitman released after serving twenty-five years in prison for a double murder. It’s also about a dirty cop, Latino gangs, and revenge. And three tons of gold, stolen off a ship in the Port of Miami back in the early 80’s. It’s still missing, you see...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Showalter
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311152213

Gary Showalter

Gary Showalter was born in Honolulu, Hawaii. He lived in Aruba, Florida and the Panama Canal Zone before joining the U.S. Army during the 1960s. Mr. Showalter has picked cotton in East Texas, baled hay in Ardmore Oklahoma, sold light bulbs in Los Angeles, California, and built cattle pens in Fallon, Nevada (during a blizzard, of course). After settling in Atlanta, Georgia, Mr. Showalter worked as a professional gardener before turning his hand to furniture making.In 1981, he moved to Israel, married, and raised four children while working as a furniture maker, silversmith, goldsmith, and ornamental wood turner. He served in the Israel Defense Forces Reserves for sixteen years, and when not on active duty he worked in government and private security. He has also served in senior management positions in two software development companies in Israel.Mr. Showalter has published articles dealing with international terror and the Israel-Arab conflict in the Jerusalem Post, Israel national News and several political science web sites.Mr. Showalter returned to the United States in the fall of 2003. He published his first novel, “The Big Bend”, in the fall of 2008, his second novel, “Hog Valley”, in 2009, his third novel, “Twisted Key”, in 2010 and his fourth novel, “Lonesome Cove”, in 2011.Mr. Showalter resides in Dunnellon, Fl, where he is working on the fifth Terry Rankin novel.

Book preview

Lonesome Cove

By

Gary Showalter

Lonesome Cove

Published by Gary Showalter at Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 Gary Showalter

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Author’s Note

Also by Gary Showalter

The Big Bend

Hog Valley

Twisted Key

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my four children

Natanel

Yonatan Chai

Simcha

Vered Shlomit

No father could be more proud of his children than I am.

Acknowledgements

While writing is very much a solitary profession, no author works in a vacuum. My sister Carol and her husband, Richard Fouraker, provided very important personal and financial support when it was necessary and contributed to the development of this novel through their comments and suggestions.

My nephew, Jerry Lee Vaughan and his wife, Maggie, have made it possible for me to complete the novel in peaceful and comfortable surroundings.

I admit it to one and all – I am a footloose wanderer. While I very much enjoy the comforts of a home I do not wish to have one of my own. It’s just way too much trouble.

As usual, my very good friend Mickey Summers of Silver Springs, Florida, a naturalist painter of incredible skill, a former educator, scuba diver and Florida historian, has provided the cover art for this novel. Mickey and his wife, Rayne, are among my closes friends and very vocal supporters. None of my novels would be as good as they are without their comments, criticisms and personal support.

Mickey has also contributed to this novel through his efforts as an editor, focusing mainly on continuity, date and fact checking and generally making absolutely certain that I was fully aware of my inability to type three words in the English language without screwing one of them up with a really dumb spelling error.

Thank you very much, Mickey!

My good friend Lesley Davidson of Jacksonville, Florida, is a stickler for spelling and punctuation errors, and has gone through the Lonesome Cove MS with her eagle eyes (she did the same for Twisted Key), and I cannot thank her enough for all of the many hours of work it took her. She is a wonderful, vibrant and cheerful person, a heck of an engineer and a woman who just will not ever quit on herself or her dreams.

Good on you, Lesley!

This is very much a work of fiction, and like most of my novels it has taken over two years of work (yes, writing is work, no matter what you think to the contrary). No fact or fiction has been overly abused in the writing of this novel, though some feelings have been hurt (mostly mine) and an occasional bit of truth has been bent (but never folded, spindled or mutilated) here and there.

I enjoyed researching and writing this story (more or less), and I hope you enjoy reading it. Drop me a line or two at: [e-mail] when you finish.

Chapter 1

Saturday, March 12 – Monday, March 14

Clearwater

Sanibel Island

Clearwater

Cathy stepped into the wheelhouse to stand beside me at the wheel. Oh, she said, I love this. The port and starboard doors were open to permit the breeze of our passage to flow through the wheelhouse. The grin that split my face said more than any words I might have used in reply. The sky was a perfect blue with a few high cirrus clouds, the water of the Gulf of Mexico was calm, and Nina R, my sixty foot cabin forward trawler, was back in her element once again.

We’d taken the weekend off to bring my converted trawler from Rolf Craddock’s boat yard in Tampa Bay to our marina in Clearwater. I run a personal protection agency in Orlando, and Cathy, my fiancée, is a sergeant in the Major Crimes Unit of the Orlando Police Department. Getting time off together is an unusual occurrence at best; being able to spend it on the water is pure heaven.

Only minutes after we tied up along the dock in the marina my old buddy Spike showed up and stepped aboard. Spike is a Hemmingway – a six-toed, reasonably well-behaved shoe box of a black and white marina cat. Okay, he’s a heavily armed (pawed, actually) alley cat who prefers to live in the marina, and chooses to live aboard Nina R where he’s kept fed and warm. He’d rather be in Cathy’s lap than mine, but when she’s not around, I’ll do.

Frankly, I prefer Cathy to Spike, but when she’s not around Spike is pretty good company.

For the last several months I’d been living in an apartment hotel in Orlando while repairs to Nina R were carried out. All of my clothes, towels, kitchen stuff and other odds and ends were now back aboard , mostly in piles in the salon waiting to be put away. But instead of getting started on housekeeping chores once Nina R was tied up and shore connections for power, internet and fresh water were made, we grabbed a few cold beers from the fridge and decided to take a short break on the after deck.

Which is when Spike chose to come aboard. I hadn’t seen the old fur ball in months, but there he was. Cathy got him some food and water while he and I said hello, and after eating he jumped up into Cathy’s lap, cleaned himself, curled up and fell asleep.

Cathy and I both drifted off just then. A combination of a fine day on the water and contentment with having brought ourselves to our new home, I suppose. Whatever it was, it made for a wonderful end to a great day.

Until my cell phone rang. I didn’t even bother to open my eyes before I picked it up off the table and answered.

Sorry to bother you, Boss, Tommy Fuchs said. Tommy was my operations manager following the murder of my old friend Charley Weeks, who’d helped to build my company. I know you’re taking a few days off, but Gianni Lupo said he needs to see you.

I sighed. Tommy, I am taking a few days off. Do me a big favor and tell Mr. Lupo I’ll drive down to Sanibel on Monday afternoon. Not today, and not tomorrow. Monday afternoon.

Okay, Boss. He’ll settle for that. Whatever it is, it’s important to him. He really wanted to see you tomorrow.

Monday afternoon, Tommy.

He laughed. No problem. I’ll let him know.

Wonder what the old mobster wants? Cathy muttered. I opened my eyes to look at her. She was more than half asleep, though her hands kept running through Spike’s fur. He’d rolled onto his back, his four stocky legs spread wide, his head hanging over her thigh.

No idea, I replied, and right now I don’t much care. After the last few months I’m not inclined to do favors for any of my clients. I glanced at Spike and muttered, Lucky old fur ball, I muttered as sipped my beer.

Cathy chuckled, then said, It’s starting to cool down. You think we ought to get inside and make the bed? We still need showers, and I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry. She gathered Spike into her arms, saying to him, You need a bath and a flea collar, Spike, and maybe a visit to a vet to get you checked over. But right now we’re going inside to get some work done.

I stored the deck chairs back in the locker, collected the empty beer bottles and followed Cathy and Spike into the accommodations block. We spent an hour sorting through piles of stuff in the salon and getting the bed made. Cathy took a shower while Spike and I took a short nap on the bed. He never left my side.

Months before, Ed Grimes, the watchman on duty at the entrance to the marina, had watched as Spike ran across the boulevard into the palmetto planting in the four-lane median. A few minutes later a package bomb delivered earlier in the day and placed on the after deck exploded, killing or injuring all of the federal agents on board, along with two young women who just happened to be walking by on the floating dock.

The damage to the marina and several of the vessels close to mine was extensive. Spike stayed away from the marina for months. When he returned, a few of the live-aboards took to feeding him again. He’d go aboard and eat what they gave him, maybe find a sunny spot to clean himself afterwards and rest for a while, but he didn’t want petting or cuddling. For some reason known only to Spike, he was standoffish with everyone except for me and Cathy.

I never claimed to understand people, much less cats.

Cathy shook my arm and brought me awake. Are you taking a shower and shaving before we go out to eat? I nodded and climbed out of bed. Spike just yawned, rolled over and went right back to sleep. Cathy hunted for her hair dryer and began to get ready for dinner, whatever it was going to be.

On the way back from dinner, we stopped at a big box store and loaded up on flea collars, heartworm medicine, a curry comb for his thick fur, a litter box and cat litter, some very expensive cat food I was sure Spike would refuse to eat, and a cat carrier.

Sunday we stayed aboard, sorted stuff out and poked around to see all of the changes Rolf Craddock and his craftsmen had made to Nina R.

Cathy was off to work at six on Monday morning. Spike and I slept in; I was going to drive down to speak with Gianni Lupo at his home on Sanibel Island in the afternoon. Lupo owned a four bedroom, three-bath place right at the beach line, off Gulf Pines Lane.

The home was built in the 1950’s, and enclosed by a light green, six foot tall breezeblock wall, with a wrought iron electric gate. A smaller gate in the middle of the seaward wall gave access to the beach. The plot was a generous half-acre in size, with nice landscaping installed by the original owner who was somebody in the movies during the 1940’s.

Lupo had an elderly Austrian couple living on the grounds. The husband took care of the maintenance and grounds while the wife did the cooking and housekeeping. Things got done slowly but well, and that’s all that mattered to Gianni Lupo. Banana trees, Bird-of-Paradise, ferns, palms on an artificial mound in a sunny spot on the side of the house, and a few night blooming jasmine surrounded the home and dotted the grounds. The rear of the property held two large old spreading oaks to provide shade in the heat of the day.

Lupo purchased the property in the early 1980’s and hired the Austrians to take care of the place. Two years later he was arrested, tried and found guilty in a Miami court on two counts of murder for hire. Only a plea bargain and testimony against his bosses in the mob kept him off death row. The plea bargain also allowed him to keep his property and the money in his bank account, but this was never made public.

One o’clock in the afternoon saw me on the causeway to Sanibel, which meant that I should be just in time for lunch. The request for a meeting was not unusual with new clients, but I will admit that I was more than a little wary. I put those feelings down to my knowledge of the man’s background as a Mob enforcer.

My life in law enforcement carried with it a certain repugnance to take on the responsibility for protecting such a man, but it meant easy work for my teams, and the income wouldn’t hurt my bottom line. But recent experience with a few of my High Visibility clients put me on edge.

Sanibel Island is a great place to live and to visit, but it does have a few drawbacks for the residents. During the winter months the population of Sanibel jumps from six thousand to over twenty thousand. Getting around on the island can be trying when the tourists are in town. Public parking is expensive, but that only matters if you can find a place to park.

Once on the island I stayed on Periwinkle Way until it turned into the Sanibel-Captiva road. Another few minutes saw me turning left onto Gulf Pines drive and the short trip to Lupo’s front gate. A quick call to Steve Bennett, the site manager in the house, let him know I was approaching the gate.

One of the many benefits to living in a place like Sanibel Island is the weather. Even during the winter months the temperature during the day can climb into the high seventies, and it rarely drops below the fifties at night. Lupo chose to eat his mid-day meal on his rear patio, surrounded by greenery, with a pleasant sea breeze ruffling the palms.

He stood to greet me as I walked through the living room and stepped onto the patio. Lupo was a small man; not much over five feet, and thin, with gray hair cut short and a fringe of mustache on his lip. He was still pale from his many years behind bars. Despite the warm weather he was wearing socks with his sandals, khaki slacks, and a long sleeved white shirt under a light tan jacket.

Blackened grouper, Louisiana dirty rice, a garden salad sprinkled with Gorgonzola cheese and ice cold beer made for a pleasant lunch. We stayed away from any business and simply chatted, sharing pleasantries while we ate. Two of the three guards on duty patrolled the grounds while the third stayed on the patio behind the client.

I was sorry to hear that your manager was murdered, Mr. Rankin, Lupo said. Mr. Weeks struck me as a very competent man.

During my last lunch with Charley Weeks before his murder, we had discussed the contract proposal with Gianni Lupo. I told Charley go ahead with the deal, assuming the old mobster would want to live out the remainder of his life in peace and quiet. Charley was shot and killed later that day.

He must have read my mind, because he said, I hope they go away for a very long time.

Thank you, Mr. Lupo. So what can I do for you? The housekeeper came out with the coffee service, and both Lupo and I accepted cups.

"My granddaughter, Nicola Gianuzzi. I haven’t seen her since I was sent away. She was only twelve years old, then. I got letters from her while I was in prison. I still have them. Her mama, my daughter Rosa, kept me up to date on what Nikki was doing. When she reached eighteen, she joined the army.

She had some skill they wanted, I don’t know what. Languages, maybe, or something to do with computers. They offered her a full scholarship, and she jumped at it. I told her mama I could pay Nikki’s college fees, but the girl refused to take it; I never learned why. Maybe she just wanted to do things her way. Young people are like that today.

That was all very interesting, but it didn’t answer my question. So I repeated it. So what do you need from me?

I got a call from Nikki on Thursday morning of the week I was released from prison. She was in Miami, and just called to say she was driving up to see me. The bleak look on his face told me everything I needed to know. She never got here, and I haven’t heard from her since that call. Find out what happened to my granddaughter, Mr. Rankin. My wife, Isabella, died of cancer three years after I was sent up. My daughter and her husband, Angelo, died in a car accident while I was behind bars. That girl is all the family I have left.

Lupo’s words struck a chord in me, but I was hesitant to take on his request. Call me gun shy if you want; I am, and with good reason. "When and where did that accident happen, Mr. Lupo?

December twenty-third, in 2000. Nikki was already in the army. Rosa and her husband were living in Trenton, and were driving to his family home in Queens for the holidays. They hit a patch of ice on the freeway.

Do you have an address for your granddaughter, Mr. Lupo, or a phone number?

He dropped his head; his voice got small and quiet. He gave me the phone number, which went into the notes I was taking. He continued, I tried calling her back later that night. I was worried she might have gotten lost, or maybe her car broke down somewhere. I’ve tried her number nearly every day since. For the first few days her phone went to voice mail and after that all I got was an out of service message. I never had an address for her.

I wondered about that last. When did you write her last? What address did you use?

She has a post office box in Miami. I never had an address for her, he replied.

Where was she working, then? You could call her employer, see what they know.

She’s still in the Army, but she never told me where she was stationed. I don’t know what she does, Mr. Rankin.

Have you tried the Armed Forces Locator? Maybe she was put on an emergency deployment and sent overseas?

I was starting to wonder about this girl. Girl? His granddaughter was thirty-seven years old. She’d been in the Army for thirteen years now, doing something the old man knew nothing about. Hell, he didn’t even know where she lived. Do you have a recent photograph of her?

He shook his head. No, just a few baby pictures her mama sent me.

Where was she born?

Trenton, New Jersey, or maybe in Queens, New York. I think Rosa and Angelo were living in Trenton then, but I can’t be sure.

Have you reported her missing? Did you call the cops in Miami?

The sergeant I spoke to in the Dade County police said she was a grown woman so I would have to wait forty-eight hours before I could report her as a missing person. If I haven’t heard from her in that time they’d send a patrol car around to her house or apartment. He paused for a second and then added, But I don’t got an address for her.

Gianni Lupo wasn’t exactly a wellspring of information about his granddaughter. I’ll look into this, but I have to bill you for the time and expenses. No promises, Mr. Lupo.

I understand, he said. Anything is better than not knowing.

We stood and shook again. Then I left for the trip back to Clearwater. It was close to seven and growing dark before I got back to the marina. Normally, Sanibel is about a three and half hour drive from Clearwater, but I hit rush hour traffic when I got to the causeway to the mainland at the outskirts of Ft. Myers, and in Tampa; the entire trip home was a nightmare.

It put me in a foul mood. Everything about the day put me in a foul mood. Right as I slipped the Suburban into my parking place near the marina office my cell phone rang.

Yeah, I said, none too happily. When my cell rings it can only mean more problems.

What’s your problem, Rankin? Cathy asked sharply.

Sorry. Hope your day was better than mine. I should never have gone to Sanibel in the first place. Traffic was lousy the whole way back to the marina.

Poor baby, she said as I got out and slammed the door to the Suburban.

What did Lupo want?

He wants me to find his granddaughter. I was walking down to the dock, talking with Cathy and trying to slip my sunglasses into my jacket pocket at the same time. I managed it, somehow.

Why does this sound so familiar?

Because it is. The story is much different, though. She’s in the Army; been in the army nearly twelve years. She called the day she planned to drive up to visit him the week he was released. Only she never got there. Then I changed the subject. Where are you?

At my dad’s. He’s got some old family friends over, and I’m cooking dinner. Want to come?

Frankly, no, I don’t. Sorry, I can’t. It’s the start of the week and I’ve still got to touch base with Cecelia and Tommy. I had no intention of calling Cecelia or Tommy. I guess you’d call that a ‘little white lie’.

She laughed. And feed the cat and maybe trim your toenails, blah, blah, blah. I didn’t think you would. I’ll see you later tonight. Maybe you’ll work your way out of that lousy mood by then.

Spike was waiting for me as I stepped aboard, wrapping himself around my ankles as I made my slow way to the accommodations hatch. I slipped the cell phone into my jacket pocket, got the hatch unlocked and damn near tripped over Spike as he slipped between my feet on his way into the galley.

I managed not to curse at him, barely.

While Spike ate his dinner, I took a quick shower, made a garden salad and fried up a thin steak with banana peppers. Then I sat down at the table in the galley with a cold Heineken and ate my solitary dinner. Well, solitary except for Spike, who sat beside me on the buffet, grooming himself. And keeping a close eye on my beer bottle.

Spike headed back out after eating. I made up a pot of coffee, slipped into a light jacket and took a mug with me to the after deck, where I leaned against the portside cap rail for a few minutes. The night grew cool; the sound of traffic was only a low murmur now that everyone was home and relaxing for the night; the only sound was the slap of halyards against the masts of a few boats as they rocked at their moorings.

A few seconds work had a deck chair out of the locker. I sat and stared at the night sky, picking out a few stars and constellations. Spike leapt into my lap, so we talked for a few minutes until he curled up and fell asleep, still purring. Actually, with Spike it’s more of a quiet rumble, but I call it purring.

I’d have to speak with Le Roy Wilson in the morning and give him what I had on Nikki Gianuzzi. He’s much better equipped to run that end of an investigation than I am. Just like every other cop (well, I used to be a cop), I hate mysteries. Mysteries soak up resources like time and money, and occasionally, lives.

Part of the problem is that I don’t have access to sources of information the way cops do; I have to hire investigators for that sort of thing. Gianni Lupo was paying a princely sum for my bodyguard services, and the due diligence we run on all new clients showed that he had the wherewithal to cover the expense. So he could pay to learn what happened to his granddaughter. He might not like the answer once I gave it to him, though.

I had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it at all. My mug was empty