The Pink Gun

By Robert Coburn

Jack Hunter’s fortunes have taken a turn for the better in Los Angeles. But trouble soon finds him when he returns to Key West. An old friend has been hospitalized from a brutal beating that may have to do with the unsolved murder of his son. Jack teams up with a private investigator to look into the case. And is quickly caught in a tangled web spun by twisted characters. He risks becoming a victim himself. LAPD Detective Laura Dalton, battling demons of her own in Los Angeles, comes to Key West on vacation and winds up joining Jack, an old nemesis, in the hunt for the killer. The path leads them to a small-time hood from Miami who has opened shop in Key West. Politics and corruption follow hand-in-hand along the way and things get deadly in short order. While Key West, beguiling as ever and always a loose knot that can slip in a minute, throws in a few stunning surprises of its own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AbsolutelyAmazingEbooks.com
• Release date: Jul 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310370953

Book preview

Chapter 1

The sun rose dirty over LA. Smog flattened the light and left the air hot and feeling used up, like an exhaled breath.

The officer responding to the call had reported it as a double homicide. Two DBs in a lot behind a convenience store on Roscoe Blvd. When detectives arrived they found one body slumped in a sitting position on the tarmac, the second body stretched out on his back five feet away.

Now the two dead men lay side-by-side on stainless steel slabs in the LA County morgue. Each a victim and a murderer. The coroner completed suturing the Y-incision down the torso of the second body and stepped away from the table.

This fellow bled out, he said. Arterial cuts on the left wrist. Probably defense wounds. Superficial slashes on the upper body. One nice nick on the neck. Probably didn’t do it shaving.

He gestured at the corpse to his right.

The other guy died from a stab wound to the liver.

Detective Laura Dalton looked sadly at the body, that of a young male Latino still in his teens, and then at the other. Their ages couldn’t have been more than a year apart. Gang tattoos marred by knife wounds on their chests and arms.

She was at the autopsy to observe. There she could question the coroner right then instead of having to wait for his report. Sometimes new evidence turned up. Or a startling revelation. The coroners didn’t mind the detectives being there.

Usually I’m looking at GSWs, the coroner continued breezily. This is my first time for a knife fight. Nine millimeter’s the choice arbitrator in disputes. Impartial, too. Shoot a man across the street and never even have to look him in the eye. But a knife is up close and personal. What I think happened here was these two gentlemen decided to settle a score. Wrapped a shirt around their left arms for protection. Not heavy enough armor for a K-bar. That’s a military combat knife, detective.

Thank you, Doctor, she said. We have matching prints on the knives found at the scene. You believe these cuts will jive with their blades?

I’d say, yes, they’ll seal the deal, the coroner smiled. But we’ll need the complete forensics to confirm it. I’m afraid you will have to wait for that.

≈≈≈

Dalton was glad to step out into the sun, the chill of the examination room quickly fading in its warmth. Squinting against the brightness, she put on her sunglasses and made her way to the parking lot.

She put down the top on the black Porsche Boxster. The car had been her gift to herself when she’d made Detective II. She’d bought it used. Even God would choke at the price of a new Porsche.

The promotion had come not long after she and her partner, Hagen, had closed the Ridenour case. A homicide case that at one point she feared might end her career.

She’d let the person of interest in the case escape during an interview in Miami. It had haunted her throughout the investigation and only when they had arrested the real killer was she able to let it go. Incredibly, the screwball she’d let get away from her deviled her even further by coming back to Los Angeles after the case had been closed and turning himself in! It was a good thing she’d transferred to Van Nuys Division. It would have been too embarrassing to stay at West LA.

Now she had this crazy double homicide that was open and shut from the outset. The two victims had apparently killed each other in a knife fight. She was trying to run down witnesses. Good luck with that.

It was puzzling. Both men evidently belonged to the same gang. The tattoos indicated that. So what was the ruckus about then? Was it just horseplay that got out of hand? Some kind of game that went too far? A duel like the medical examiner suggested, God forbid? In the end it would just be determined accidental deaths. And forgotten.

The Boxster pulled out of the lot and headed for the I5.

Traffic was light when she hit the freeway and soon she was through downtown LA and coming up to the 134 intersection. She drove west to the 101 and got off at Coldwater Canyon. A few more blocks and she pulled into the parking garage of her apartment building.

Now, no longer in motion, a blanket of suffocating heat spread over her. She used to not mind living in the Valley. It was just where she came home to. Most of her day was spent on the other side of the Santa Monica mountains. The side cooled by the Pacific Ocean. She’d probably always carry a soft spot for West LA Division.

She had gone into detectives there, after three tough years working patrol in Rampart and Hollywood. At first, she’d been assigned to the burglary table. But an opening became available in homicide. She put in for it and was partnered with Detective II Hagen. That was when her real education began.

They were a good team. Trash Man was patient, insightful and demanding. Hagen had earned the sobriquet because of his diligence in collecting every scrap that might be considered evidence at a crime scene. He was a dumpster diver nonpareil.

When the head of homicide retired, Hagen took over the department and was bumped up to Detective lll, the highest rank. And she moved to Death Valley, her name for Van Nuys.

Hagen had been there when Jack Hunter walked into the station and told the desk officer that he was a wanted man. The officer called Hagen and when he found out who it was, he came down and got him. Hunter explained everything and when he’d finished, Hagen shook his head and told him he was free to leave. There’d been no charges. Not even for embarrassing a member of the LAPD.

As soon as Jack was out of the door, Hagen had called her and they shared a big laugh. Only she hadn’t seen it quite as hilariously funny as he had.

Amazingly, Jack’s and her paths had crossed again sometime later. It’d been at a fundraiser for battered women. She had attended because she’d seen enough cases of women beat up by husbands, boyfriends, pimps and strangers when she worked patrol and wanted to offer encouragement and advice. Jack was there because he’d made a sizable contribution to the center. Their meeting had been cool.

The apartment offered a sanctuary from the oppressing heat. She’d left on the air conditioning, as always. Stripping off her work clothes, slacks and blouse, she hopped in the shower. Dry, she slipped on a light, flowery dress, loosely cinched at the waist. Fluffed her hair. Re-did her makeup. And was back out of the house and into the Porsche.

Taking surface streets to Woodcliff, she raced up the hill to Mulholland Drive, hung a quick right and grabbed the on-ramp to the 405 South. She was on her way to Santa Monica to watch the sunset and enjoy an early dinner at her favorite restaurant, Le Bistro. She made a reminder to herself to ‘watch it’ with the menu. She’d noticed lately a return of the chunks around the hips. That would require a little more effort at the gym and perhaps a weekend of massages at the fat farm in Ojai.

Traffic hauled the Porsche to a full stop. She turned on the air-conditioning even though the top was down. Finally, it began to move at a creep. Coming down the mountain she could see a helicopter circling ahead over the freeway.

She should’ve taken Roscomare, she berated herself. It ran parallel to the 405. She’d be at Sunset by now if she had. However, she always came this way whenever she had business on this side of town. It was part of a self-imposed therapy that she’d made up.

The 405 was where the incident had occurred. A road-raging idiot had slammed into the back of her Honda and went on to threaten her both life and limb. She had been so shaken that she’d had to take time off from work. It still bothered her but she kept that secret. There was always the chance of getting a black mark if you went to the department shrink. Better to suck it up and get on with things. Well, that was easy to say. She’d devised another plan. Return to the scene and relive the moment often enough and maybe it’ll all go away. Straight out of psychobabble. She was approaching it now.

The helicopter made another low pass ahead at San Vicente. It was a news chopper. Traffic had now completely stopped.

A figure suddenly darted from the underbrush along the side of the freeway. He was a kid. He ran up to the Porsche and jumped into the seat.

Drive this fucking car! he screamed wildly, as he put a knife beside her neck.

The traffic won’t move, Dalton yelled back.

I’m gonna stick you! he threatened tearfully.

Dalton jerked the wheel to the right, pulled into the outside emergency lane and accelerated.

Her purse was jammed between her seat and the center section. Should she risk going for the gun inside it, she wondered? She concentrated on driving instead.

Then another idea struck her.

What’s your name? she said to the teen.

What?

Tell me your damn name!

Jason. Drive the fucking car, lady!

Okay, Jason, Dalton said, using the command presence she’d been taught. I’m a police officer. Now, what is your problem?

Jason was dumbfounded by her audacity.

What’s going on, Jason? Dalton insisted.

I’m in trouble, Jason answered, a catch in his throat.

Yes, you are in trouble and I’m going to help you. First, you have to give me that knife.

Jason handed her the knife. She continued down the emergency lane to the turnoff at Santa Monica Blvd and exited the freeway. The news chopper swooped low overhead, almost hovering above them.

My friends and I broke into a house, Jason yelled. There must’ve been an alarm. The cops came and we panicked. I’m sorry I scared you. I wouldn’t have done anything.

Dalton turned left onto Butler and pulled up in front of West LA station.

Give me your arm, she ordered, reaching into her purse and taking out a pair of handcuffs.

Jason stuck out his arm and she snapped the cuffs around his wrist and closed the other end on the steering wheel. Opening her door, she grabbed up her purse and the knife.

I’ll be back, she said to Jason.

A police officer was just exiting the building as Dalton approached.

Ma’am, he said, you can’t park there.

Chapter 2

The sun balanced perfectly on the horizon.

Jack Hunter had settled himself on the deck of his beach-front home just south of the Malibu Colony, where the decidedly well-off lived, to watch the clouds blush before fading into night.

His house had been part of an inheritance left to him by his late ex-wife, Pamela Ridenour.

Pamela’s generosity had surprised everyone, including Jack, since he’d once been thought to have murdered her. He had gone from being a fugitive, broke and homeless, to becoming re-invented and had returned home.

Now he was back to where it had all started, only this time as a different man and indeed, a wealthy one. Pamela had never changed her will after their divorce. This unexpected turn of luck and fortune had enhanced his sense of obligation and he had promised himself he would help others in need as he’d once been helped.

But some needs are needier than others and all come with a price.

The sun slowly eased itself into the Pacific Ocean. Pelicans, like a fold of paper cutouts, stretched low across its face. A cool breeze offered itself up and Jack went inside.

He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. Leaning back against the cold granite-topped center counter, he took in the huge room. It was all open space and pretty striking, he had to admit. The entire wall facing the ocean was glass. You could sit in a chair and look out toward the sea and believe you were in your own private ocean liner. Quite a place.

He ought to put it on the market. The problem with the house, ocean liner or not, was he just wasn’t happy here. This whole Malibu life-style thing that anyone else would die for just didn’t do it for him. He must be crazy.

He turned on the television to get the news headlines.

Channel 5 gunned out the story of a burglary, a carjacked cop on the 405, and an amazing arrest, all wrapped up in one. Aerial footage of the action showed police cars with roof-rack lights ablaze tearing through the streets, a figure climbing into an open-top Porsche stopped on the 405. The Porsche, belonging to the said cop, speeding away. An LAPD spokesman at the West LA police station stated that a police officer had been carjacked and the suspect, who was also suspected of having been involved in the burglary, was now in custody. He didn’t identify the officer but Jack was certain that he knew who it had been. Detective Laura Dalton stood silently behind the spokesman, looking like hell warmed over.

Jack’s phone rang as the newscaster switched to another item. Caller ID indicated a 305 area code number.

That you, Jack? Billy Bean shouted as soon as Jack answered. What time’s it there, hee-hee?

Hi, Billy, what’s up? And it’s a little after six here.

My goodness, it’s gone after nine in Key West. Look, Sparrow needs help. Somebody beat him up the other night.

Well, gosh, if Sparrow got in a fight I don’t know what I can do about it from out here, Billy.

Weren’t no fight. Four or five guys jumped him. Beat the snot outta him. We gotta find out what’s going on. Else it’s gonna get worse. What you say, Jack?

Picking a fight with four or five guys! I mean what the hell was he thinking?

He didn’t pick no fight, they jumped him for no damn reason!

Yeah? Hell, Billy, everybody says that. Turns out they just stuck their noses in where they shouldn’t. You know, I’m kind of busy here.

Sparrow didn’t stick his nose anywhere. He’d left the restaurant and was heading home. But that’s okay, Jack. You’re busy.

Jack felt like a dog. Hadn’t Billy taken him in when he’d had no place to go? Offered friendship when he’d been alone? Looked out for him more that once? Even made him a partner in the restaurant and then had put up the money for his share? Now his old friend Billy asks for a little assistance, not to mention that it was to help somebody else who’d also saved his ass, and he was busy. What was wrong with him?

Give me a day to take care of things here, Jack sighed. I’ll catch the first plane I can get. Where is Sparrow now?

In the hospital, Jack. Had to take him to Miami. Something bad happen inside his head.

Chapter 3

Jack pressed his face against the window as the Delta jet roared low over the Key West cemetery on its approach to the airport. The grave markers and rooftops of surrounding houses sped past below him like movie frames from a former life.

He’d once walked those streets. Looked at those homes with a longing that could only be understood by the homeless, as he had been at that time.

Ashe Street crossed beneath. There, the tiny Conch house he’d shared with Ruth LaVere and Bobby Sunshine. And Roy, the wonderful parrot. The same loneliness he’d felt when they had left the island now came over him. He wondered if they’d ever returned. Maybe they were here now?

Within seconds the plane slammed onto the short runway, the pilots reversing the engine’s thrust and standing on the brakes, bringing the Boeing 737 to a halt at the last turnoff. They taxied to parking.

He was back in Key West. Unbelievable!

The taxi drove him from the airport to the Pier House at the end of Duval Street. He’d been to the Chart Room, one of its bars when he’d lived in Key West, but had never stayed at the posh hotel. How could he have? He’d been all but broke back then. Now he’d flown first-class on Delta and was booked into a first-class joint.

He checked in and the bellman took him to his room. It overlooked the harbor with a stunning view of Sunset Key and Christmas Island. Yachts the size of naval vessels plied the channel. Schooners, with sails filled and decks awash in tourists, swept outbound toward the sunset. Jesus! Jack thought.

It was too much to take in. Circuit breakers began to pop in his head. At one time, and not all that long ago, he’d had to sleep beneath a ficus hedge just blocks from here. That had been his only home then. He sat on the soft king-size bed.

He should call Billy and let him know he’d arrived. Tell him that he’d be right over. Yeah, that’d be the thing to do, except he couldn’t. Not just yet. He undressed. Washed up. Put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

Key West Bight was two blocks down Front Street. He turned left where the street ended and the water began. The boardwalk took him past the boat berths. A deckhand was filleting a nice sized dolphin and Jack stopped to watch. The man was masterful with the filleting knife. Soon the fish had been transformed into a neat stack of thick slabs ready to broil. Not to waste, he’d tossed what couldn’t be used to the waiting tarpons which roiled the water as they gobbled them up. Gulls screamed in protest overhead.

It’s a good day for drinking, a gravely voice behind him shouted.

Jack turned and saw a man puffing on a cigar and standing behind a tiny bar. It looked inviting. He decided the guy might be on to something.

≈≈≈

Billy was just ready to turn off the lights at the Inedible Cafe when Jack banged on the door.

The interior suddenly went