Fresh Start

It had been a year since it happened – the senseless murder of a thirteen year old boy whose crime was nothing more than having been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t really a ‘bad’ area of Oakland, and Tim didn’t hang out with ‘bad’ people. He was sitting outside of a fast food restaurant enjoying a burger and fries with a few friends when the East Side Fuegos decided to choose him for a gang initiation killing. Carlos Mendez was only fifteen when he pulled the trigger of a stolen shotgun loaded with slugs, aimed out of a tricked out Impala. Yeah they got him. Him and only him. He was sent to juvie, and his defense argued to the hilt that he was just as much as a victim as well. There is some small degree of truth to that statement. Very small. Really, they should have been looking at the veteran bangers that put him up to that. And, he might have reduced his sentence if he gave them up, but of course that would mean his own death sentence, plus little if anything would happen to the other involved members. Does Carlos Mendez deserve to die a sentence of life, or death, for his crime? It would be hard to encounter a person that wouldn’t agree. Regardless of ethnic, racial or socioeconomic background.

It was a heavy blow to Bob Magnum. They say that being a combat marine in Operation Desert Storm left him with PTSD. It really didn’t. He was a ‘deal with it and let’s move on’ type of individual. But the loss of his son was far more difficult to move on from. It took a toll on his marriage, and on his career as an investment manager. He wasn’t exactly what you would consider living on table scraps, but he was living a much more austere life than he had been in the family’s spacious home in the coveted Oakland hills, which was a quite nice part of Oakland. But, at least, now, he actually was starting to get over it.

He hadn’t done anything fun in quite some time. Managing portfolios was a time consuming, high pressure job which afforded little time off, but it funded the house, some retirement money, Tim’s tuition at a private school, and his planned education at some big name university, probably Cal or Stanford, was… no longer an issue. As unfortunate as it was, it was nice to finally get out and take a cruise on a ship. The jaunt from Long Beach to Lima, Peru and back, with a few stops along the way, would be a three-week adventure. At least, that was the plan. Mechanical issues with the ship’s main engine cost an extra week to the schedule. Which meant there was a lot of extra time to get to know one’s cabin mate.

It was apparent, early on, more or less from the first day at sea, that the accommodations weren’t really going to work out. Personalities clashed. The guy that they roomed up with Bob was rambunctious, to the point of being obnoxious. On the other hand, Bob acquired a drinking buddy rather quickly, and by the second day, they decided to do a cabin swap, and Bob ending up sharing a cabin with Rich Green, who was also traveling alone with an assigned cabin mate.

You couldn’t say that Bob and Rich were much alike personality wise, but the striking thing about them is that they looked very similar, to the point where if they weren’t actually standing side by side, you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart save from their different manner of dress. They ended up getting along quite well. Rich came from a very different background. He was an accountant. He was soft spoken, and he really didn’t have much in the way of family back in Scottsdale, Arizona. In fact, he didn’t even technically have a home in Scottsdale. He was on the first portion of an extended world journey that would last at least a year – it was the first time he had left the continental United States. Consequently, he let his apartment lease expire and put his stuff in storage.

The additional week impacted a number of travelers on the cruise ship, and many elected to disembark prior to the return of the ship to Long Beach. Rich had no particular hard schedule to adhere to, but he had grown tired of being on the ship. The prospect of having a cabin to himself was enticing to Bob, but in the end he was weary of the voyage as well, and the cruise line offered to fly affected cruise participants back to Long Beach at no additional cost so he elected to disembark with Rich at Acapulco.

The rustic beach front open air cantina was a change from the massive modern glass enclosed bars on the ends of the ship. For once, the tall, middle aged single woman that would sit with, and often leave with, a seemingly different man every night, was seated alone at the other end of the bar. Bob smiled, and whispered to Rich. “Hey, I think she’s looking over at you. Might have a chance there, pal.”

Rich turned slightly red. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom. Feel free to knock yourself out.”

You would think that there would be a whole lot more unaccompanied single women on the cruise ship than there were. Most of them paired up quickly with single, unaccompanied men. It’s not like either Bob or Rich were particularly on the make, in particularly Rich, whose most romantic encounter in life was brushing up against the school librarian in eleventh grade, but more personal female company would certainly have been welcome. It occurred to Bob that he didn’t even know the woman’s name at the end of the bar. Then again, the prospect of sharing an apparently much shared resource didn’t seem all that appealing, particularly given the number of drop dead gorgeous local women in Acapulco.

Bob absent mindedly grabbed Rich’s beer. No matter, they were both freshly delivered anyway, so he kept it. Bob returned a few minutes later. “Cheers. Bottom’s up” Rich said, as both men downed their beers.

“Hey, I’m going to go down and chat up that girl for a bit.”

“You like that, huh.”

“Yes. Well… the same way I like watching train wrecks. I don’t necessarily want to be on the train, if you know what I mean.” But what the hell. Bob got out of his seat, and walked over to the woman. Realizing he was out of drink, he motioned to the bartender. “You flying back to Long Beach as well?”

She smiled, and sipped a Manhattan. “It took you three weeks to come up with a line?” I thought you guys were gay.”

“Wow. Ohhh kayyyy. Well, let’s start over....”

“Or let’s not. Besides, your buddy over there looks like he isn’t feeling very well.”

Well that explains why she left with a different man every night. They probably couldn’t stand to spend more than one evening with her, Bob thought. He returned to Rich. “Hey man, you feeling alright? You don’t look too good.”

“No, I don’t feel good at all.”

“Come on. Let’s get back to the hotel.”

The cab driver looked in the rear view mirror and spoke. “Hey, yo, are you going to be okay?”

Bob shook Rich, who just sat in the seat with glassy eyes. He was starting to turn blue. “Change of plans. We need to get him to a hospital, like right now.”

We ain’t in Kansas, Toto. The old concrete building behind a tall iron fence looked more like a security compound than a hospital. Bob impatiently waited in the lobby for news. Hopefully it’s just some food poisoning or something.

A thin doctor with a short, dark beard bearing a clipboard finally emerged after an hour and a half. “Excuse me. You are Senor Green’s travel partner?”

“Yes. Yes, is he okay?” Bob rubbed his cheeks compulsively.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. He has unfortunately passed away. He has had a heart attack.”

Sonofabitch. “Oh, Jesus.” Bob sighed. It’s not like Rich was his best buddy or a family member. But, in addition to being a sad situation, it was one hell of an awkward situation as well.

“Will you be settling Senor Green’s affairs?”

“Huh? Um, geez, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Does he have a family back in the United States to receive the body?”

“Not… really.”

“If someone cannot arrange for the transportation of his body, he can be buried, or cremated here.”

“Yeah, I guess the guy deserves a proper burial.”

“That would be at your cost of course. He can be cremated for free.”

“Okay, let’s do that then.”

“Very well. I’ll just need you to sign some forms. The desk can help if you need them translated.”

Bob sighed, and grudgingly accepted with a nod. “Okay.”

“One more thing. This is his death certificate. You must take it to the United States consulate so they can prepare the death notification. That will be needed so his affairs can be settled. Just give the completed form to the desk and you are done here. You will be given his personal effects.”

“Right.” Bob took the death certificate from the doctor and started to check boxes in the form, which had mostly been filled out. As the doctor started to walk away, Bob spoke. “Hey doc.”

The doctor turned around. “Yes?”

“What would happen if I did not give this death certificate to the consulate?”

The doctor shrugged. “Then nobody would know of his death. At least outside of this hospital.”

“Interesting.”

It sure as hell didn’t look like it. Bob stood in front of the massive, high rise shopping mall and hotel complex, yet, bigger than life, was the street sign at the car park entrance. A big circled ‘E’ under which were the words, Consulado Estados Unidos. Then nobody would know of his death. At least outside of this hospital. He had a fleeting thought. He turned around and hailed a cab back to his hotel.

Rich passed away the previous evening. After a completely sleepless night, he removed Rich’s bags and placed him in his own room, with the intention of returning them to whatever family that he might be able to locate. But, he had no family to speak of. And it was a nasty thought, but as he stood in front of the consulate that morning, it occurred to him that if he wanted, he could be Rich. Now why would he want to do that?

For the past year, Bob had been filled with an incredible rage, with an insatiable desire to render justice for the murder of his son. He wanted to take those gang bangers out. Himself. But he didn’t. The reason he didn’t, is because, he’s smart enough to know that there is no way he’s getting away with it. The minute he tries to leave the country, bam, they take him in to custody. If he manages to leave the country before they find out what he did, they can track him. So as Rich, he has a couple options.

One option is to continue living in the United States as Richard Green. That’s probably not a very good idea for a variety of reasons. A long-lost relative might try to track him down. If something happened as to where, for whatever reason, he had to be fingerprinted, then he was hosed, as his prints are on file with the military. Another option is to go to a foreign country, preferably a third world country far away, and live as Richard Green. Malaysia might be a good bet, and English is widely spoken. Better yet, Indonesia, which is a little more backwards.

What about Rich Green? Had he ever been in trouble? It came up in conversation. The man had never had so much as had a parking ticket. He had never, in his life been fingerprinted. He really left quite a boring and lonely life. The only biometrics data stored in a US passport is a digital photo. It’s the same photo as the one on the main page of the passport, and Bob can easily pass for that.

Then there is the issue of money. There is a fair amount of money in an investment account, as well as stocks. He just liquidates the stocks, and transfers all the cash to an offshore account, as Robert Magnum. He may or may not have to make a trip someplace to set up the offshore account. Once he is offshore, he can set up another local offshore account as Richard Green, and transfer Robert Magnum’s cash to Richard Green’s account. If he used the right banks, it would be untraceable. What about whatever assets Rich has? For the time being, it’s probably best to let any accounts he may have just sit.

It's actually, really coming together. Bob had the most important stuff. Rich’s passport and drivers’ license. An electronic pass card for a storage unit, and keys for both that as well as a set of car keys. And a set of unknown keys. What about the credit cards? That is going to be a sticky issue. It’s the little things that trip you up. Try living any kind of life without a credit card. You can’t rent a car, buy a plane ticket, or in some cases even get a hotel room. Rich had a few cards. They were running balances, probably large ones. No big issue. Forget about them, and secure a new one under your new Richard Green identity. Try to do it before the balances become very overdue.

At the storage unit in Scottsdale, there was furniture, a file cabinet, and a bunch of boxes. There was a surprisingly little ‘stuff’ even for a single man. He directed his attention to the file cabinet. Low and behold, there were a lot of personal documents. Those would be useful, so Bob elected to save them and placed them in his car. He debated on whether or not to empty the storage unit and terminate the lease. People skip town all the time and leave their belongings in unpaid storage units. Nobody is going to come looking for him over that. Same thing with his car, which was parked in an adjoining vehicle storage lot.

Satisfied that he covered everything he really needed to cover in Scottsdale, he checked in to a motel, ordered an Italian combination pizza, and started to reflect on the next steps. Next stop, Oakland. He could relax a little now. The whole foreign bank account transfer thing was done. It was in the name of Richard Green, except now it was an account Bob could access and control, and he could even use the same illegible chicken scratch signature he’s always used. Which, of course doesn’t look like it spells Richard Green, but it doesn’t look like it spells Robert Magnum either. All that really remained to do was knock off a few well deserving gang bangers, and relocate to Malaysia. Specifically, just across the straight from Singapore. He had been to Singapore. It was a fun place, but over the top expensive. Mainland Malaysia was far cheaper. And he even had an accounting job lined up to grease the wheels for a residency visa. He wasn’t an accountant, he was a money manager, but that’s close enough and he’s had accounting classes. And if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t need to stick it out for long. Just for long enough.

West Oakland. Havenscourt. Two of the worst areas of the city in terms of homicides and gang activity but there are more. Bob discovered he faced a daunting task. Offing G’s is easier said than done – at least in terms of finding them. Oh go in the right places (or wrong places, more accurately) and they will find you. But not necessarily the ones you’re looking for. And there are a lot of them. Black gangs. Asian gangs. Hispanic gangs. All of them fight each other over their turf, where they selfishly guard their drug trading market, and their protection rackets. If you go in there and just start asking questions, you aren’t likely coming back out alive.

And then there are the OPD detectives. Zack Harris was a wealth of knowledge in the Tim Magnum murder investigation. He argued he was just as frustrated as Bob himself was. But he knew. He knew exactly who the East Side Fuegos were, and where they hung out. He didn’t come right out and say it, but it was his job. He was a lead in the gang unit. But it’s not like Bob could go and ask him. Or could he? There is only one reason why the father of a murdered teenager would ask who and where the gang members that killed his son are. There is absolutely no other way to couch that intelligence request so of course Zack Harris is going to keep his mouth shut as well as his ears open. But the truth of the matter was that he couldn’t even begin to develop a plan of attack until he knew the location and setting. Their gang house. They often tend to live in one big house. Or they live in cheap apartments and meet at some big house.

But let’s say you are going to hit the streets and start asking questions. An important part of getting useful information is knowing where to ask questions. Oakland is a large city, and usually gangs don’t have beefs with other gangs across town. They have beefs with their neighboring gangs. So they tend not to know or care much about cross town gangs. The best he could figure, were that the black gangs hung out in West Oakland area, the Asian gangs were centered on Chinatown, and the Hispanic gangs covered the Coliseum area. If only it were so simple.

Money talks, and it never hurts to ask. The danger of going in a Hispanic gang dominated area asking questions about Hispanic gangs, is you might be asking someone that is part of a gang with an alliance to the East Side Fuegos, if not the East Side Fuegos themselves. Maybe Chinatown is a safe bet. Or a safer bet. It’s sort of like having to choose between the Taliban and Al Qaeda.

Tommy Chong’s Market #2 was about as good as anyplace else to start. There were no customers. Just the old lady. The old lady isn’t going to work. Bob walked out and went in to a convenience store half a block down. There was a young Asian man with a long ponytail working the register. Bob hadn’t smoked in years, but nonetheless he purchased a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, and waited outside in the light drizzle for pair of men to leave with their purchase of cheap liquor and Ding Dongs. Then he went back in, and approached the register.

“I need to find out some information on a gang. Do you know who I can ask?”

The kid’s eyes bugged out. “Are you for real?” He looked around nervously.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Just walking in to this neighborhood looking like you do is bad enough. People get killed giving out information like that. And people get killed for asking.”

“I know that part of it. I’m willing to pay.”

“Can’t help you. Sorry. Take my advice. Go to your home in the burbs, watch a movie, and be glad you made it back in one piece.”

“I can handle my own. I’m an ex-Marine.”

“I don’t care if you’re Attila the Hun. There’s only one of you, and I doubt you’re strapped with an AK. Even if you were, there’s only one of you.”

“Do you want to know why…”

“No” the kid said.

“Fine.”

No sooner than he left the convenience store, an Asian male probably in his thirties, leaning against the steel protective grating over the window threw down his cigarette, and spoke in a low voice. “I heard you’re looking for some information.”

“I am looking for information.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know who the East Side Fuegos are, and where they hang out or live.”

“Aaaahh. I know who you are. What is it worth to you?”

The question stumped him. Bob had not considered what level of offering to make. “Two hundred.”

The man spit on the ground in contempt. “Two hundred is enough to hire someone to waste someone for you. But not enough to rat.”

“Five hundred?”

“A grand.”

“Seven hundred.”

“Eight hundred.”

“All right. Eight hundred it is.”

“Let me see it.”

“I don’t have it on me. I will give it to you when I get the information.”

“Let’s drive to your bank.”

That was stupid. Bob cussed himself out. He felt as if at some point, he was so committed he couldn’t turn back, even if it meant shelling out close to a thousand dollars just to save his life. But was the information bogus? The reported leader of the East Side Fuegos was ‘Ju Ju’ Julio Mendez. There were eight members of the gang, and they all lived in a two story building on the northwest corner of 106th and Spruce.

The freeway, the 580, was between the hills and 106th and Spruce. The hills were steep, and offered a good platform for sniping, but the target was too far and not within line of sight for that to work. Gangs didn’t hang close to the hills. The hills were for the protected class – like his former self. He did surveil the area. A man matching the description of Ju Ju Mendez did, in fact, reside at the two story house at the northwest corner of 106th and Spruce. Not just him, but seven of his prison tattooed cronies. Okay. The information was worth eight hundred dollars. They just look bad, therefore even if it’s off, so what. A pipe bomb might be a handy way to dispatch those thugs. Or a good ole drive-by.

He was about to return to Chinatown to hunt down the Asian man with a ruddy face and a sparse, short beard in order to inquire on the possibility of acquiring a black market Kalashnikov when it occurred to him that he should probably start his life in Malaysia first, come back, do the job, and then he could return and just walk back in to his life. That made more sense. Because once he does do the job, he really can’t come back.

Rich must have some very high limits on his cards, because only one had been declined so far, and the current one purchased a ticket to Singapore, business class at that. Get dropped off at SFO, eat your fill and drink you limit in the lounge, eat some more and drink some more on the plane, then you have a nice comfy seat that reclines to a bed, and you can sleep through the flight and wake up refreshed. After locating the airline departure kiosk where he could check his baggage and receive his tickets and boarding pass, he noticed a couple of men in suits, without bags, who seemed to be taking an unusual interest in him. Judging by the earbud mics, they must be airport security.

One of the men seemed to be carrying on a brief radio conversation, and after a while, several uniformed airport security officers started to congregate. Bob was feeling a little bit uneasy and wished that the kiosk would hurry up and open. The attendants were just starting to take their positions. It would be a few minutes. Before too many business class passengers could congregate in the line for the kiosk, the two men in suits approached Bob.

“Excuse me sir, can I please see some identification?” One of the men asked. They both looked identical. Like they were made from the same mold that casts full size action figure models.

“Sure thing.” Bob reached in his pockets and produced Rich’s driver’s license.

“It’s him” The man announced. “Mr. Green, you’re going to need to come with us.”

What the hell is going on? Bob sat silent in an airport interrogation room as both agents were furiously talking on a cell phone. “Is somebody going to tell me what this is all about? I have a flight to catch.”

“Sorry Pal, but you aren’t flying anywhere. We’re FBI. You’re wanted by the authorities in Scottsdale, Arizona on several charges of lewd conduct and statutory rape of minors. You like little boys, huh.”

“What the hell?” Bob demanded.

“Oh yeah. You know it’s funny how they’d never suspect a mousy little man who never had so much as a parking ticket in his entire life would turn out to be a serial pedophile, but they finally got you.”

“Okay…. Guys, guys, listen to me. I know you’re not going to believe this, but I’m actually not Richard Green.”

“Uh huh, and I’m actually not Agent Walters, I’m really Santa Clause. Let’s go, buddy. You’re staying in a federal detention cell until the officers from Arizona come to get you. They were actually going to come out to take you in to custody personally, but then you purchased that airline ticket with your credit card, so they called us to intercept you. Bad move. You should have left from someplace south of the border.” What a sick, ironic twist. Richard Green wasn’t embarking on a world journey just for the hell of it. He was actively on the run. Then, a terrible, chilling thought came over Bob.

It was the drink. Rich, just may have inadvertently poisoned himself. Shortly after the innocent mistake of grabbing Rich’s beer instead of his own, Rich drank the beer intended for Bob, and almost immediately became violently… and terminally ill. Then it make complete sense. He didn’t die of a sudden heart attack. Well he may have, but it was due to poisoning. Bob was actually the intended victim. Rich, very likely, intended to take Bob’s life so he could escape himself, with a new identity. What a clever, sick bastard. In the end, it really didn’t work out well for either one of them. Certainly, things worked out worse for Rich, but right now, things weren’t looking so good for Bob.

“Well well well” Agent Walters said as he approached the small holding cell in the branch FBI building. “I guess I am Santa Clause after all. I’ll be damned, but it turns out you were telling the truth. We ran your prints, and low and behold, they came back to one Robert Magnum.”

“See, I told you. Can I go now?”

Walters laughed. “Noooooo, you see, Mr. Magnum, you have new set of problems. At a minimum, you’re looking at identity theft and fraud, and at a maximum… So… where is Richard Green?”

Bob buried his head in his arms. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Before you get too much in to it, I probably better advise you of your rights.” Walters pulled out a small Miranda card and read the standard criminal rights out loud.

“I suppose I better get an attorney now” Bob said.

“I suppose that would be a delightfully good idea. You probably want a good one, and by the way, it’s now a federal case, and it’s looking like there will be a murder investigation, so you might want to mention that when you canvas your attorneys.”

It had been almost two years to the day after Bob’s arrest when he walked out of Federal Correctional Institute Herlong, having spent two months of a two year sentence with credit given for time served in detention prior to the trial. In a plea bargain, prosecutors agreed to knock the felony grand larceny charges to a misdemeanor. Bob argued that two years was an unusually stiff sentence for a misdemeanor, and he was right, but the big thing was clearing him of murder charges. By his own admission, he was with Richard Green when he died. The clearing evidence was a copy of a death certificate issued from a Mexican hospital in Acapulco which listed the cause of death as a heart attack. Additionally, without a body, prosecutors would have some level of difficulty securing a murder conviction.

His lawyer advised him that he should omit the part about the suspected accidental poisoning. That part was just not going to wash well in court, particularly when all the other details of Bob’s accounts of the events that lead to Rich’s death could be corroborated.

The legal fees took a heavy hit on Bob’s finances. He was on a payment plan that he couldn’t even begin to execute until he was free of custody and could access his offshore account. That was the other part that his attorney advised he keep his mouth shut over. Bob had to prove the money was there before his attorney would even take on the case.

He still had a vendetta to pursue. Mentally, ethically, morally, he had already done time for the crime he had not committed. Fraud? Identity theft? Rich Green didn’t need either after his death! It was no skin off his back. Plus the pervy bastard deserved what happened to him, even if his apparent heart attack after downing the wrong drink was just a fluke, and not the failed attempt at an intentional poisoning. Bob would never actually know the truth about that one.

Two years later, and Ju Ju Mendez was still calling the shots for the East Side Fuegos, minus a couple members lost in a knife fight, and plus a couple new members, almost certainly to the detriment of a couple lives. Bob took up residence in neighboring Berkeley, a stone’s throw from Oakland’s city limits. His son would have likely gone to Cal – University of California, Berkeley, in three years. It was a high rent area for sure, but he managed to rent a room. He didn’t want to be too far away from his target. He worked odd jobs. The board that oversees Certified Financial Planners didn’t take well to a larceny and identification theft conviction, so that avenue for income was pretty much out.

Bob was busy enjoying a late lunch, and an early afternoon drinking session in his nearby local pub when a familiar face sat down on the bar next to him. It took a minute. Then it dawned on him. It was Zack Harris, the detective from the OPD that investigated Tim’s death. He was dressed in his work suit, and the glint of his shield and the edge of his shoulder holster was visible from his slightly open jacket. It was unintentional, he wasn’t there to intimidate. Or drink, since he was obviously on the clock.

“How you doing, Bob, you hanging in there?” Harris asked.

“Couldn’t be better” Bob responded with a scowl.

“Yeah I heard about your little fiasco there, with the law.”

“You did, huh. How did you hear?”

Harris sighed. “You know, a couple years ago, I had a very interesting conversation with one of my CI’s. That’s a Criminal Informant. Basically, a bad guy that is one of our eyes and ears on the street. The guys that give us intelligence.”

“A narc.”

“Another way to put it, but yes. Anyway, it turns out that he talked to you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. He said you paid him eighty bucks for some information on the East Side Fuegos.”

“Ohhhh. That guy. Well that’s a lie. I did not pay him eighty bucks for some information on the East Side Fuegos.”

Harris studied Bob’s facial expressions. “Then how much did you pay him for information on the East Side Fuegos?”

“Eight hundred bucks.” Bob took a drink of beer.

“There is only one reason why you pay eight hundred bucks for information on the East Side Fuegos. Or eighty bucks. Or even ask at all. What are you still doing here, Bob? You have no reason to be here. Well… you have no other reason to be here. Don’t do it, Bob.”

Bob continued to eat is fish and chips with an expressionless face. “You should try the fish and chips. Pretty good here.”

“In a million years, I couldn’t have guessed why you would have possibly wanted to steal another man’s identity and disappear overseas. But I figured it out. You did it so you could off some of the East Side Fuegos and get away with it. And you know what the funny thing is?”

“What’s that?”

“Well, that was completely unnecessary. Unless you offed them in broad daylight, with dozens of witnesses watching, we would have chalked it up to another gang on gang offense. Let’s just say the standards of investigation are somewhat more lax than the standards if an innocent person were the victim, if they need to be. Of course you didn’t hear me say that.”

“So you’re saying that if I go out and terminate the East Side Fuegos, you would look the other way?”

“Again, I would never say that. But let’s say that you did. The problem is that we had this discussion. And for that matter, you, for all intents and purposes, had that discussion with my CI. So I’m just going to leave it at that.” Detective Harris stood up. “One more thing. This thirst for vengeance is going to destroy you. Look at where it got you so far. Want to stick it to the bad guys? Don’t let it destroy you. They enjoy seeing the victims’ loved ones destroy their lives just as much as they love killing victims.”

I could get used to this. A cool breeze wafted through the rattan beach hut, one of countless that speckled the shores of Bermuda. He had a pretty good gig as a tour boat operator. It didn’t pay a lot but it paid enough, and it was a whole hell of a lot more fun than staring at computer screens and executing stock portfolio trades from early morning until late in the evening. He had just finished the last tour of the day and it was barely three o’clock in the afternoon. The bar was deserted save for an elderly couple seated at a table. A tall brunette woman with large sunglasses and a wide brimmed fashionable wicker hat wearing a flowing sundress walked in, surveyed the bar, contemplated the situation, and approached the stool next to Bob.

“Is this seat taken?” The woman asked with a smile. Of course she was joking. The place was virtually empty.

“I was going to save it, but I’ll make an exception for you.”

She pulled the stool out, and took a seat. “It probably took you three weeks to come up with that line.”

Bob did a double take, and studied the woman carefully. “Huh. Nah, it can’t be.”

The woman ordered a Manhattan. “It can’t be… what?”

“Nothing. Never mind, for a second I thought you were someone I met.”

“You mean like at a cantina in Acapulco?”

Bob’s jaw dropped. “Okay, now that is one hell of a coincidence. In fact, that is too much of a coincidence.”

“No kidding, detective. I got your name from the cruise line, hired an investigator, and tracked you down to this place.”

“Well, it’s not that I am not flattered, but that sounds a little creepy. Downright scary, to tell you the truth. What could be so earth shatteringly important that you would come, I don’t know, thousands of miles, to see me?”

“I didn’t exactly come down here just to see you. I planned on coming to an island like this for a long time anyway. But as for the reason for why I came to see you, something that really bothered me to this day – that night in Acapulco. I felt bad about it. I didn’t make the connection until later, well after you already left. You see, I saw your partner put something in your drink. I just kind of assumed it was a good natured prank, like he was salting your beer or something. Hell, it sounds like something I would have probably done myself. But then, he was the one that ended up getting sick. That part I didn’t understand.”

“What happened, is that I was distracted by a tall, beautiful blonde woman seated at the other side of the bar, and I accidentally grabbed the wrong drink.”

She smiled. “What happened to him?”

“I took him to the hospital, and he died there. I didn’t realize he was actually trying to poison me until much later. And now you just confirmed it. It’s a really long story.”

“You can take your time telling it, I don’t plan on going anywhere for a while. I kind of like it here. And what made you come out here?”

“Honestly, I came out here to get a fresh start.”