Chapter Seven
Blu was glad he didn’t have to wait a long time for Pelton to leave the secure community. He watched the shiny white pickup truck exit through the gates and make a right turn, heading back the way it had come. There weren’t many cars on the road at the present time so Blu let Pelton get a hundred yards before heading after him.
This Brack Pelton character didn’t seem to be a bad guy. He sure stuck it to those hit men. At least one of them, anyway. And Blu appreciated that.
A haunting question wouldn’t leave his mind: Why did Skip choose that bar? Was it random? Certainly wasn’t anything random about that Colt Python in Pelton’s hand. Guns were a necessary evil. One that Blu only courted when the stakes got high. Like right now.
When he’d walked in the bar and got drawn on by Pelton, he wasn’t carrying anything but his wallet, two cigarettes, and a lighter. Now, though—now he carried his own cannon, a nine millimeter Berretta just like in Desert Storm. It’d served him well there and served him well since. At home was his other favorite, a Glock. And that Army-designated M24 Remington rifle he’d used to win more than a few competitions.
As U2’s “I Will Follow” played on the Land Cruiser’s tape deck, Blu tailed Pelton down Palm Boulevard and across the bridge onto Sullivan’s Island, where it turned into Jasper Boulevard. With two vehicles in between them, the closest a Jeep Wrangler with some lucky guy hauling around three bikini-topped women and the other a new Mini, Blu hoped at least one of the cars stayed behind Pelton through the upcoming stop sign.
Luck was with Blu again. Pelton turned right onto Ben Sawyer Boulevard and headed off the island. And so did the Jeep. The three-car convoy—Brack, the Jeep, and Blu—crossed over the intra-coastal waterway and into the town of Mount Pleasant.
If Blu had been counting blessings, the second one, after the Jeep had stayed between them, was that they hadn’t gotten stuck at the Ben Sawyer Bridge when it sometimes rotated out of the way for sailboat traffic to pass below in the intra-coastal.
The Jeep took a right onto Chuck Dawley Boulevard toward I-526 while Pelton stayed straight toward downtown Charleston. At this point, other cars had joined them, and Blu didn’t need the Jeep for cover anymore. As long as he kept a few cars between them, he felt he could hang back all the way into downtown.
They crossed the massive Arthur Ravenel, Jr. Bridge, the one that had changed the face of the city ten years ago, and onto the Charleston peninsula. Things got more complicated when Pelton followed what was now Seventeen, turned right onto King Street, and parked in front of a store that sold musical instruments. A store Blu knew all too well.
Blu said, “No way.”
Brack had been followed enough times to know to listen to his instincts. And from the time he left Chauncey’s he sensed someone following him. It took a few moments to spot the tail—an old Toyota Land Cruiser—and a few more moments to figure out who it was—that Blu Carraway PI.
As soon as he spotted the tail, Brack made a quick call to his aunt, who ran one of the local papers as well as the Channel Nine news. It went to voicemail, so he’d called the switchboard and was transferred to her office.
His aunt, Patricia Voyels, answered with, “Are you okay?”
“Trish must have called,” he said, heading up the Ravenel Bridge toward Charleston.
“No,” she said. “I do know a little about what’s going on around here, Brack.”
He thought, then why haven’t you called?
As if reading his mind, she said, “The Isle of Palms chief said you were okay. I guessed you’d be calling me eventually, and here you are.”
“I’m glad I’m so predictable.”
“And I’ll bet you need a favor,” she said. “That seems to be the only reason you call these days, nephew. You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to spend some time with your aunt.”
Darcy’s gone and Patricia reminded him of her.
Again, as if sensing his reluctance, she said, “Don’t worry about it. We’re all pretty busy these days. What can I do for you?”
“I’m guessing when you found out the details of the shooting at the Pirate’s Cove, you had your staff do some research.”
“Of course.”
“I need to know what you have on Blu Carraway.”
He heard her shuffle through some papers.
Then, she said, “Interesting fellow. Ex-Army Ranger. Solid citizen. My sources say he’s very tough.”
Yeah right. He said, “The cops have got nothing on this guy.”
“Because they don’t have my connections.”
“Well, dear aunt, what do your connections say about our solid citizen?”
She said, “You know Adam Kincaid?”
“The banker?” Brack had read about him in the news. Some big shot with a lot of clout.
“In the simplest terms, I suppose he is a banker.”
“What about him?” He looked in the rearview mirror at the old Land Cruiser following, thinking, “And hurry up because I need something fast.”
She said, “Someone kidnapped his daughter while she was on vacation. When the police and the feds couldn’t get her back, one of Adam’s friends suggested he call in a specialist.”
“Don’t tell me this Carraway guy got her back.”
“From Mexico. He and his partner, a biker named Mick Crome. The information I have is that the two of them killed six high-ranking members of one of the cartels there in the process.”
“Why isn’t he dead, then?”
“Because, dear nephew, he apparently cut a deal with the other cartel members. He would get the girl back and they would have some internal competition eliminated.”
“A win-win, huh?”
“Something like that.”
“Okay,” Brack said. “I need something a little more immediate. Is he married?”
“No. But he has a daughter.”
Something told Brack not to mess with Carraway’s daughter. “What else?”
“You know Willie’s Music on King?”
“Yes.”
“He’s been known to associate with the owner.”
At the moment he’d heard this, the King Street exit was coming up. “Perfect.”
Brack ended the call and took the exit.
Who did this guy think he was dealing with, some civilian? Pulling to a stop in front of Willie’s Music would certainly take the snot out of the Ex-Ranger-cum-Private Investigator’s nose.
So Brack did just that.