Poisonous Lucky Moves: Det. Lt. Nick Storie Mysteries, #6

By C. D. Moulton

Three books from the Det. Lt. Nick Storie Mysteries

Bad Move
Nick gets involved with the Russian Mafia when an FBI agent is murdered. Even his gangster friends warn him against getting involved with them – but that wouldn't be Nick.

Lucky Stiff
Luck has a way of turning sour. Maybe a killer's long lucky streak is about to run out.

Name Your Poison
A truly exotic poison is killing people. The only connection Nick can find is on the internet, and that's tenuous, at best. Does he have some new kind of serial killer here?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. D. Moulton
• Release date: Nov 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215106563

Book preview

Nick Storie Mysteries

Poisonous Lucky Moves

Three books

© 2020 by C. D. Moulton

all rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

These are works of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons or events are purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.

Bad Move

Nick gets involved with the Russian Mafia when an FBI agent is murdered. Even his gangster friends warn him against getting involved with them – but that wouldn’t be Nick.

Lucky Stiff

Luck has a way of turning sour. Maybe a killer’s long lucky streak is about to run out.

Name Your Poison

A truly exotic poison is killing people. The only connection Nick can find is on the internet, and that’s tenuous, at best. Does he have some new kind of serial killer here?

Contents

About the author

Bad Move

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Epilogue

Lucky Stiff

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Epilogue

Name Your Poison

Prologue

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Epilogue

About the author

CD was born in Lakeland, Florida, in 1938. He is educated in genetics and botany. He has traveled extensively, particularly when he was a rock rhythm guitarist with some well-known bands in the late sixties and early seventies. He has worked as a high steel worker and as a longshoreman, clerk, orchidist, bar owner, salvage yard manager, and landscaper and more.

CD began writing fiction in 1984 and has more than 300 books published in SciFi, murder, orchid culture, and various other fields.

He now resides in Gualaca, Chiriqui, Panamá, where he continues research into epiphytic plants and plays music with friends. He loves the culture of the indigenous people. He funds those he can afford through the universities, where they have all excelled. The Indios are very intelligent people, they are simply too poor (in material things and money. Culturally, they are very wealthy) to pursue higher education.

CD loves Panamá and the people, despite horrendous experiences (Free e-book; Fading Paradise). He plans to spend the rest of his life in the paradise that is Panamá

CD is involved in research of natural cancer cure at this time. It is based on a plant that has been in use for centuries, is safe, available, and cheap. Information about this cure is free on the FaceBook page: Ambrosia peruviana for cancer.

Bad Move

Nick Storie Mysteries  Book sixteen

© 2000 & 2011 By C. D. Moulton

Nick gets involved with the Russian Mafia when an FBI agent is murdered. Even his gangster friends warn him against getting involved with them – but that wouldn’t be Nick.

Critic comment

I was prepared to not like this. I don’t care for those international mobster things, but this one is different. Actually, quite good.  – JDM ***½

AP

Prologue

Ken Woodson drove on into the swampy area, being careful to stay on the trail, such as it was.

Mark had been right that it was the kind of place he would like, and it was right next to that big tract that fellow who owned the Crane companies had bought and fenced – well, across the road.

This tract was only a hundred ten acres, and most of that was swamp, but there was about a twelve acre high ground knoll in the middle that would put him plenty far away from anyone else, and there was never (at least in his lifetime) going to be any development on the Crane side, for several miles, in all directions. Having billions of dollars to spend on conserving something must be a great feeling.

The stream ran for about four hundred feet inside the property line, here. It was legally open to the public, but there was so much overhang it was almost impossible to move along it, and that was going to remain. Crane had opened the stream on their side, because it was deep and wide enough for canoes, and he had even put in three little half acre spots with picnic tables and such, but Katie bar the door if anyone left a mess, there. Crane could close those parts in a blink. Not very many people went in those places, this far from anything, and canoes and gators, which there were plenty of, didn't mix, particularly in mating season.

There it was. Exactly as Mark had described. Oak and pine, with sabal palms close to the water, and the stream from here down to the river was deep and fairly wide. He could use a canoe and get into thousands of acres of cypress swamps to explore and carry on his personal research. He could go directly into Fakahatchee, to the south and west.

He would build a small A-frame on a clear area, about three quarters of an acre to the east of the center of the knoll, and could get in and out in the wetter seasons with a swamp walker. He had a small plot by the road that was actually higher than the road. He could build a concrete block garage to keep his bike and Jeep in, and lock it as securely as he could anywhere else, and it wasn't likely anyone would try to break in if he made it look like some kind of pumping station or something. It could be far enough from the road to not be too obvious.

He'd buy it. He had the money, and there was damned well no better use for it. It was time he did something for himself, and this could double as preservation. He got out of the Jeep and walked around the knoll and to the stream. The water was clear, but slightly tea-colored, from the tannic acid. The willows and Brazilian Peppers hung over it, a little toward the road, so it wouldn't be passable – as he had hoped. He'd get rid of the peppers, though. They’d eventually strangle out everything else. He'd get rid of any melaleucas, too. Mosquitoes would be fierce, at times, but he knew a few tricks there, too.

It would be getting dark, soon. He didn't know the place well enough to try to navigate around in the dark out there. He got back to the Jeep and headed back to the road, stopping at the high spot where he would put the garage, to note there was limestone close to the surface, which was why there was nothing but scrub on it, so he could put in something damned strong on that foundation. It was a little out of sight of the road, and there were some fairly thick trees between the road to screen it.

A shot ripped through the trees, a couple of feet above his head, and he ducked and yelled that he was back there. There was a sort of scream, and another shot, then a splash, and he ran to see a black Cadillac SUV squeal out and head away south. It had been on the bridge, and something was obviously thrown into the creek, so he went to look over the rail.

There was blood on the rail. Quite a lot of it. Very wet, and not at all congealed blood. There was a body in the water. A large black man, in a very expensive suit, if he was any judge. That was an Armani, or something such and cost more than he made in a week, for sure.

Ken went to his Jeep to grab his cell phone to punch 911. He was going to find himself in a mess, over this. He would definitely be the only witness who wasn’t involved, and that could make him dangerous to someone, at least, in their mind, if they thought he saw or heard something he hadn’t seen or heard.

Just what he needed! He still wanted to buy the place, but what the hell was this? Was it a place drug dealers were dumped?

A1

Chapter one

Is Andrea going to be a genius, like Cole? Det. Larry Feng asked Det. Lt. Nick Storie of Collier County, Naples South Station, Violent Crimes Division (or just cop, as Nick was prone to say).

Andrea was Nick's daughter, now three months old, and Cole was his son, four years old. Larry was finishing his training, and would take over the graveyard shift in a little more than a month, when Ellen Vickers was transferred to head the Naples Downtown Station. He sometimes took shifts in emergencies, now.

Cole's not a genius, Nick replied. "He's smart and quick, and Janet (his wife) believes in teaching a child as young as possible to make them want to learn. He's four years old, and can read at a second grade level, and does numbers at the third grade level, but that's because of the teaching.

"He'll do very well in school. They'll moan and cry because he's so far ahead of everyone else his age, but Jan's teaching him to expect that, and not to become an obnoxious type prodigy.

I think she can pull it off. She was raised more or less like that, so knows what he'll face. I tell him I'll expect him to have a job and help with the family by the time he's ten. He says does he have to wait that long?

He's a genius. Why’re you fighting it? Larry said.

Vic called from the front desk for Nick to pick up the nine one one line. Larry grinned, and said he'd be going, or he'd end up suckered into a double shift. Nick waved, and grabbed the phone.

Some guy had almost witnessed a murder out on Cross Cypress Road. Out by the second bridge, by the entrance to the Crane Preserve. The body was in the creek. Nick punched the forensics line. Dr. Tiny Menthorne, coroner, and Frog Forest, ace photographer, would meet him there.

Ken Woodson was a tall, dark, lanky, bearded man who was there, looking at land. He told Nick what he knew, and they went out onto the bridge as the coroner's lab van came to stop on the bridge. Kathi Carnes, the newest forensics expert, climbed out and waved. Ken was staring in awe as Tiny climbed out of the van.

Tiny stood six six and weighed, at the moment, around three hundred forty pounds.

Frog got out of the back and started panning around with a videocam. He wouldn't miss an inch of the entire area. He included the several gawkers, their vehicles, and the license plates on those vehicles. Kathi immediately took some samples of the blood on the rail, and Tiny called frog to get shots of the two shell casings by the rail base. Kathi called that she could see the body, about eighty feet away, caught in the limbs of the Brazilian peppers hanging into the water.

I couldn't see very much, except the suit looks expensive. Armani, at the least, Ken explained. "That kind of money says drugs, I would imagine. It was one of those really oversized SUV things. Black. It had a round gold emblem on the back hatch, so I suppose it's a Cadillac. I think the license plate was white with a blue streak across the top. Illinois, isn't it?

"I'm thinking of buying all the land from here back downstream. A hundred ten acres.

I'm not going to have a bunch of this kind of crap, am I? I mean, the first shot was right over my head. I don't need to buy a place where there are druggie killings or drive-by shootings. Mark didn't bother to mention that!

This is the first I've heard about, out here. Did you get a look at the driver, or anybody else, at all?

No. I yelled that I was there when that shot was so close, then there was another shot, and I ran out as the SUV laid rubber toward the south. The windows had that film over them, so I couldn't see anything inside.

Nick got all the information Ken had to offer, then told him he could go. He might have to get in touch, again, if anything came up. Ken said he was renting a place at 4211 Amberton Drive, and would be there for the rest of May. He may renew, or he may move. He'd call in his new address, if this wasn't finished, or if he had to testify, or anything.

Ken got in his Jeep and drove away as Frog and Kathi pulled the body ashore, down by the stream, so Nick made his way down there to assist. Frog got in the water and drug him up to where they could get him out of the water.

Oh, cripes! Nick exploded.

What? Kathi asked.

His name’s Arthur Canfield. He's with the FBI. He was here with that Blaine ass when that mobster in the witness protection deal was shot. If Blaine had had the sense to listen to him, that one wouldn't have happened. He was the only one who had any sense!

I remember that one, Frog said. "I said, at the time, that someone sold out. I still think it was Blaine. Someone knocks over a protected witness mobster because of an incompetent FBI agent, and the agent who tried to stop it from happening gets knocked over. Hel-lo-o!"

"I don't think so. However, I've been wrong before.

"He was shot through the head. A second shot. The first was high, so was probably to scare him, then Woodson yelled, and the next shot killed him. If someone was trying to scare him, it was because they wanted information. If he was killed that soon, they didn't get that information. If they didn't get it, it's probably somewhere where it will show up to cause someone grief.

There's going to be all kinds of trouble with this one.

"They don't want to tangle with Paddy or you, Frog pointed out. They have experience."

Damn it to hell, Nick! Capt. James Paddy James exploded, the next morning. Nick worked whatever hours he needed when he had a case. Why in hell can't you get a case where some frustrated schnook gets pissed at somebody and blows his stupid damned head off in front of fifty witnesses, like any other cop? Why does it always have to be some earthshaking big deal?

Call Pancho, Nick, Specialist Aide Marsha Blevins suggested. Maybe this one is something that can be handled that way. If any of those mobsters are trying to move in down here, he'll put an end to it before it gets started.

Pancho DeGulio was a close friend of the entire Naples South Station Violent Crimes Department. He was once thought to be a major drug lord, but had been conning the dealers and the suppliers, and had gotten very wealthy, in the process. He knew so much about them that the top crime syndicate people in the US (as well as several other countries) were as much as terrified of him. Very little happened he didn't know about.

Nick sighed, and called a number very few people knew.

Gloria (Pancho's wife)? Nick Storie, here. How are you?

"Oh, hi there, Nickie! I'm due, in another week, and Pancho's treating me like I'm breakable.

How is Jan? The new baby?

We're all better than we deserve to be. Andrea's as good a baby as Cole was.

They chatted a few more minutes, then Pancho came on. There was no connection he knew about with anyone and the FBI agent. Marsha got on the line, and was talking with Gloria. Nick called Arturo Doniletti, Mo Jefferson, and Greco Miklokaras, the other top crime syndicate people. No one had a clue.

There is no syndicate connection. Anywhere, Nick announced. I think I'm kind of sorry about that. We're not getting any help with this one.

"I'm not putting up with any crap, if they send a bunch of the kinds of halfassed idiots we got in that genius geneticist case (Book one: Bon Appetite!), Marsha warned. Every time we get involved with those people, they start the same old act. Big bad powerful FBI's gonna tie my ass to a lamp post if I don't do what they say!"

I don't think so, with this one, Paddy said. "We would've heard from them this morning if it was going to be one of those. They're too quiet about it, which makes me wonder what's up.

Nick, handle this thing exactly like any other investigation.

I intend to. I've got a watch out for any SUV with Illinois license plates. Particularly Cadillac.

Dolly can probably find something for you, there, pretty fast, Marsha suggested.

Dolly was Frog's wife. She was their computer expert. Nick said he'd see what she could suggest, and went down the hall to her office. She said she'd check gasoline purchases with credit cards.

You can do that?

You can do a search for anything on the web, anymore. I type in key words – gas slash credit slash SUV slash Cadillac slash Florida – and can ... get ... thirty one thousand ... that's too much. Add slash May one hyphen May eight – one week, and get nine hundred ninety two ... and do a search for Illinois registration, and get ... thirty one ... and in Collier County, and get ... four. Then Lee county, and get ... seven, of which two are in both counties, so we now have a choice of nine possibilities. I can print them out, and there it is.

Sheesh! Nick cried. Now if you can get me their present addresses it will save me having to try to find all of them.

"I can try their Visa or ATM card numbers ... that one there, use in motels and or hotels, and we have the recent addresses of six of them.

"These two are out. They've gone on, so we have four there – of which one has a lot of children along, so that one's not likely.

What else can we try?

Which of them are black?

"I thought you said the guy didn't see the driver – oh, you mean the car. All of them. Four are black, so it will be one of those, if it's on our list, at all.

Wait! I have an idea! She started typing furiously, and a number came on the screen.

That’s an Illinois plate that was stolen at the Silver Sands Motel. It was two days ago. Is that good news, or bad?

Terrible! No! Wait! There are two motels, right together, there! Check which one had a black Cadillac SUV staying there when the plate was stolen.

That probably isn't on the comp.

Nick picked up the phone and raised an eyebrow at her. She scrolled the comp to the phone book, and called the Silver Sands. There was no black Cadillac SUV there, at the time.

There was at the Black Bear Motel, next door. License number G4X HHKL. Texas. William Smith. Nick got the Visa card number from the motel, and Dolly traced it. William Smith was staying at the Ramada, on the South Trail, last night. He'd checked out this morning at 9:13.

He's had an hour plus to get out of the county, so we'll put out an APB from Central Florida south, Nick suggested. Dolly put it on the police links.

"All we can do is wait. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this one. I’m afraid it’s going to get very complicated. It smells, and I don’t mean in the obvious ways.

"Remember the old country song? ‘Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song’?

Something’s just a little out of kilter. I can’t figure if it’s a setup aimed at us, or at somebody else. Know what I mean?  Like there’s grease in that glove sort of thing.

Excuse me? Like there’s grease in that glove? Marsha cried. "Oooh! That was a real miss!"

They had a list on the bulletin board labeled Mangled Metaphors and Awful Allegories – and Nick always had something at the top of that list.

Nick gave her the middle finger salute, and sat back to think. FBI agents getting assassinated on a back road in an area ... there was that Crane guy’s – Grimes was his name. Famous for private detective work, while being a billionaire with a bunch of criminology degrees, or something – land across the road. That stream ran through that land. Crane did a lot of work for the government in counter-espionage and secret weapons. A couple of the people who worked for him were friends of the depart-ment, including the computer genius, JK Kiley, who taught Dolly most of the extraordinary things she could do with those comps.

Could there be a tie-in with Crane companies and those projects, and Woodson just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time?

Or was Ken Woodson exactly where they wanted him to be, exactly when they wanted him there?

Something was very strange about this one!

A2

Chapter two

Nick? This is Don Gordon, EMS.

Yo! Hi, Don. How’re the wife and kids? Nick replied, answering the call.

Fine. This is a business call, Nick. There's a wrecker pulling a black Cadillac SUV out from a canal beside Alligator Alley, about a quarter mile inside the Collier County line. There's a body inside that matches the description of your William Smith. FHP says you have an APB on it and him.

"It'll take twenty minutes or so to get there, but they are not to screw up the evidence! I'll get Tiny and the van on the way, and I'll get there as fast as I can."

There's a FHP car here, and he's not going to allow anything to be screwed up. I know him. Cal Jones. Nobody gets around him!

That Blaine character is about to get a smack in the puss, Don greeted Nick. What the hell is the FBI doing at a traffic accident?

He carries no authority here, Nick answered. I'll handle him.

Nick went over to the SUV, where a FHP officer Nick had met, Cal Jones, was arguing with Blaine. It seemed as though the FHP wasn't any easier to intimidate with the Government agent crap than he was. He walked up behind Blaine as Blaine was demanding, ... my access to that vehicle, immediately! This isn't some little local accident, I represent the FBI! I'll have the government on your ass if you obstruct me!

"If you don't move away from the vehicle I will place you under arrest for obstruction and evidence tampering, and you'll stand in front of Judge Martha Collins to answer those charges.

Officer, has this person touched the vehicle?

Yeah. He tried to open the door is why I stopped him. He grabbed the door handle, but it's locked.

Are you telling me this so-called professional criminal investigator placed his uncovered hand on a door handle that may have held the fingerprints of a possible killer? Nick hissed.

Uh-huh.

I did not! That is a lie! Blaine cried. You aren't setting me up! I'll have your ass....

Finish that sentence, and I’ll arrest you for making a felonious threat against an officer of the law in the State of Florida, Cal interrupted. "As to whether it's a lie, you'll note the videocam sitting on the dash of the cruiser, pointed right at you, and you will notice this microphone pinned to my shoulder.

Lt. Storie, I wonder mightily why an agent of the FBI is here and acting in such a manner, don't you?

As you say, mightily. Blaine, this had better not be some mob muscle on a WP plan, because he very probably can be identified as the killer of another FBI agent.

Eeep?! WHA..!! Blaine squealed. "Are you serious? Art was protecting him, for Christ's sake!"

Right! Cal snarled. This SUV was described as the murder vehicle, and you geniuses never suspected any-thing!

We never suspected Rigo ... er, Smith! Blaine protested. We didn't know he'd been described, or we would've ... handled it differently.

"He was only described as the driver of the vehicle before and after the murder. I think I have to talk to a couple of people. I don't know what's going on.

"Blaine, I think, as much as the idea does not appeal to me, we're going to be forced to work together on this."

I don't have any problem with that, Blaine agreed.

Understand one thing, and be damned sure you do, Nick said, evenly. One lie is one more than you get. One evasion. One misdirection. Clear enough?

Crystal. We can't talk here, and ... well, I know you won't share anything, even though it might concern a few of your friends up north.

They know the deal. They wouldn't ask that I go an inch outside of my job for them. There's one person I might ask for advice. I would only do that after I get his word about it.

"DeGulio? That shouldn't be a major problem. He's where he is because he knows when – and if – a thing should be said. There's a condition on that, and it has to do with the fact he's supposed to have taken over Compton's bailiwick."

Yes, he did – and they went out of the drug business less than five minutes after he acquired the businesses. There's a big part of it that can be run legit. He'll dump the rest.

It isn't about drugs.

The forensics lab van pulled up, and Nick went to talk with Tiny and Frog. Blaine got in his car and left.

What? Frog asked. That look says you just swallowed a bug. A nasty one.

Nick grunted. "I'm in a position where I have to work with Blaine, of the FBI. I'd rather swallow a bug.

I have to get whatever I can about this one, fast.

Tiny came to get the situation report while Frog got his various cameras working. Cal came to say he'd already reported the accident was suspected of not being an accident, and that Lt. Nick Storie was in charge of further investigation. It was murder, not traffic. He filled out his reports, and left.

Tiny took about an hour, then they loaded the body into the lab van, and Nick was about to tell them to take the SUV to the impound lot when Tiny showed him a plastic bag of papers he found hidden inside the door panel. Tiny didn't miss much when he searched anything.

Nick read a few pages, and said to take the SUV to the federal impound lot. He'd follow it in and call Blaine, on the way.

One other thing, but you've probably figured it, Tiny said. He's had some extensive plastic surgery – by someone very good. He's about fifteen years older than he looked, and I can't tell what he looked like before the work.

Thanks, Tiny. I'll have to follow this one in and see what Blaine can tell me.

Tiny climbed into the van, and it drove away. Nick waved for the tow to head for Naples.

He met Blaine at the lot, and said Tiny found some things in the SUV that indicated Smith was an Albert Rigotovic, who was supposedly dead for three years. He had been a sort of department head in the contract business, in Europe. He had a little sideline of making people who got in trouble for any number of reasons disappear.

What's it about? Nick asked.

"He made some big weapons dealers working in the old USSR through the Balkans disappear. He also made some behind the scenes dictators disappear. He knew where some people are we would very much like to be able to account for. We want to know what they're up to, now. He used plastic surgery and such, but made damned sure he would recognize any of them. That's why he was here. There's been a sudden congregation of very dangerous players."

Nick hung around while the crew literally took every screw out of the SUV and laid the interior out for them. They found CDs sewed into the visors. Two of them.

Blaine arranged for Nick to get a pass to allow him to go most places in the small facility the FBI had in Naples. Their comp experts took the disks and scanned them. One was photos of forty seven people. Blaine couldn't identify any of them, and the comps didn't come up with any-thing. The other was encrypted, and they'd have to spend a lot of time trying to get anything from it.

Make me a copy, Nick requested. I'll have a friend work on them. He can find anything there is to find.

Uh-uh! Not until we know something. This could be sensitive.

I guarantee this one has security clearances you could only dream about. He works for a defense research facility. Several of them.

Kiley? At Crane? Nick nodded.

Okay. Him and you. Who else?

Dolly, at the station. She's a friend of JK. They do computer stuff together. Only that. She's Frog's wife. We're all good friends.

We agreed to total honesty. DeGulio?

I don't think he'd know anything at all about this, but he might have connections. I'll let you know if I think he should be brought in on it, and won't, if you say not to.

If he can help, we'll go for it. You know what I think those things are? What kind of deep shit we’re into, here?

A bunch of people who disappeared. I hope we can find some of them.

Blaine nodded, and Nick headed for the station with his copy. Blaine hadn't asked about the papers Tiny found, so he didn't bring them up again.

JK (JK Kiley, computer expert from Crane) says he can do a basic bone structure conformation process that can get past the plastic surgery, to an extent, Dolly reported. He'll compare them to a list of the type of people you're looking for. Ears and noses and such can be changed a lot, but bone structure takes a lot of time, and most of these have had little more than five or six years to heal, so an enhancement can bring out the scars from that. All of them are high resolution digital photos.

I'm going to go through this stuff Tiny found, Nick replied. Maybe I can learn something from it. He took the package of papers into an interrogation room with a pot of coffee, and sat to read. When he came out, everyone had gone home. He called Jan to say he was tied up on a case, and would be home soon. Paddy had put Larry Feng on his shift, according to the duty board.

He found two names that two of the pictures should match. Sylvia Greenblat and Ricard Schnell. Greenblat had run a Zionist cell that had gone too far, and were wanted internationally for terrorist crimes, and Schnell was head of a neo-nazi group that had gotten into political assassinations.

JK probably wasn't at Crane plant, at the moment, but he'd send the information to him, so he sat at the his comp and coded for JK – who replied. He gave him the information, and got back two pictures, after about five minutes. They were on audio, and Nick suddenly cried, I'll be damned!

What?

This woman was in a convertible that went by the wreck, twice! I'd almost swear to it!

The guy with her?

I couldn't see the driver well, and only noticed her in a subconscious way. It's hardly likely, is it? She's a fanatic Zionist, and he's a Nazi.

"They're Mr. and Mrs. Roland Stanley, now. She made a few million bucks with the Zionist movement, and he dittoed with the neo-nazi crap. They're exactly like those crooked televangelists. They make a few million on the scam. They don't believe it.

They're dangerous people, Nick. Watch your back.

That's a promise!

"Mr. and Mrs. Stanley recently moved to The Pointe, here in Naples. They bought the house and boat in a package from the estate of the late Renaldo Hughs. Mr. Felding said they were from the Midwest, and didn't know anything about boats and should not have gone out without Dan Hastings, their captain. They didn't know to ventilate the engine room before starting the engines, apparently, and shouldn't have shut the engines down completely when at sea, in any case.

A memorial service will be held....

Nick shut off the TV and called Blaine.

Did you hear about the boat blowing up last night, about four miles offshore of Marco?

Vaguely. Why?

I saw them drive by the wreck. JK identified them from the pictures. Mr. and Mrs. Roland Stanley were actually Ricardo Schnell and Sylvia Greenblat, a Nazi and a Zionist.

Shit! Why the hell didn't you tell me?

"I was going to discuss them with you, first item of business, when I came in this morning. JK didn't find out about them until around ten, last night.

You know what this means?

Means? They're killing each other off.

"I hope there's no connection, but know damned well there is. How in hell did anyone know we'd identified them? It was past ten o'clock, last night, on a secure link, and they're dead less than twelve hours later.

There's something else that's a bit ... odd.

I can't spot it if I don't know anything about it.

Memorial services are to be held.... I turned it off to call you.

I see. They die in a boat accident at dawn, and before nine o'clock on the same day, arrangements are announced, Blaine hissed. "That has to mean a government agency wants it covered, Fast!

Who, damnit!

Uh, Nick? came on the line.

What...! Who in the hell?! Blaine yelled.

JK. Marty Blaine, of the FBI. How do you do that trick, JK? Get into the conversation?

"Oh, your home line was busy, so I conferenced it. I didn't listen to anything. I said something, right away.

Were you talking about the Stanley/Schnell/Greenblat supposed boat accident?

How did anyone know they were identified, JK?

They have sophisticated equipment, so used a focused laser, or something – or they're the CIA. They weren't on a witness protection deal, so it was either their group or CIA. I traced another one because of a crooked deal they made. Picture number nineteen is Brachten V. Nordeklider, an arms dealer who even worked with atomic crap through Norway. He was making a deal with Iran and Pakistan. He's using the name Lars Larson, and now lives at four oh two Pearle Place, The Pointe.

Good lord almighty damn! Blaine yelled. Telling us that on the phone could get him killed!

Big whopping loss to the world, JK replied, and suddenly wasn't there anymore.

What we have to find, now, is who killed Arthur Canfield, Nick suggested. I can't make myself care much if that bunch kills each other off. I agree with JK. Big whopping loss to the world!

"You'll find them all. It's how you are. Quite frankly, I personally wish they would kill each other off, to the last one!"

"I don’t disagree with that, but too many innocent bystanders get drawn into that kind of thing, and I can’t let that go. I wish to hell they’d pull this kind of crap somewhere else!

"I like to figure a case, but I don’t like that there are any cases to figure. It’s the way I am. If these are left alone, they get bolder and more violent until they’re having their gang wars in the streets, like back in prohibition era Chicago, or whatever.

"You’re in it. There was some kind of witness protection thing that blew up and killed a good agent – and I’ll admit I don’t think there are exactly a dearth of good agents in the FBI, anymore – who must have known something that is very dangerous to some very dangerous people. You know one hell of a lot more than you’re going to tell me. That’s a given. Just understand that that gives me the right to be as selective in what I tell you.

"In other words, you make the rules, and we all follow them."

Blaine grinned.

A3

Chapter three

Larry Feng had stayed to work with Nick on his case, and was with him as he drove into the curved red gravel drive with its white stone border to the Larson house. They got out and rang the doorbell. Larry asked the maid who answered if they might speak with Mr. Larson. They were shown into a large open room with a goldfish pond in the center.

A bullish very blond man who matched his picture very well came to ask who they were and what they wanted. Nick and Larry introduced themselves. Nick explained it was part of a homicide investigation.

What the hell am I supposed to know about a homicide here? Larson demanded. He had a strong Nordic accent that reminded Nick of Betty White's mock Swedish.

The victim was FBI agent Canfield, who was protecting a person in the FBI witness protection program. The protectee was also murdered. Schnell and Goldblat were identified, and they're dead.

He looked shocked when Nick mentioned Schnell and Goldblat, but recovered, instantly, and said, Who then are this Schnell and Goldblat people?

You know perfectly well who they are, Larry pointed out.

Don't get smart with me! Larson snarled. Do you know who I am? I can have your job with a phone call!

You're known as Nordeklider, Nick answered, easily. "Brachten V. Nordeklider. I'm here because you've been identified, as I just said, and could be in danger – unless you're the one who acted on the identification of the others.

We aren't getting anywhere here, Larry. Let's go.

Larry said, You get hit now, you weren't the one who's doing the hitting. You don't, and it says a lot. Have a nice day!

Nordeklider sneered, but he looked a little scared.

What was that crap supposed to accomplish? Blaine demanded. I may have wanted to put a watch on him!

Oh, come on! Larry retorted. How about he figures his only chance to survive is a deal?

No, Nick said. "Smith was getting the best protection the FBI or CIA can give. It didn't do any good. Schnell and Goldblat were part of the group and look where it got them! His choice isn't a choice, but he put himself there.

It's pretty much what you said. Nobody hits him, he was at least part of the murder of Canfield, and that's the case I'm on. This intrigue bit doesn't much thrill me.

Nick! Line two, Marsha called. It's Arturo.

Doniletti?! Blaine warned. We have a deal!

I know, Nick replied, then punched line two. Yo, Artie! How's the family?

Great Nick. Yours?

Same. This isn't a social call, at the station. What?

You tell me, Nick. What in the hell have you stirred up with the Russian mob down there?

Russian mob? I don't know what you're talking about, Nick said, raising an eyebrow at Blaine.

"Gregor Ivanov will give me a nuke if I can guarantee him a place where nobody can find him. He's living on Marco Island under an assumed name and ID. He says you’ve been fingering a