Free Fatal Decree by H. Terrell Griffin Page B

matched the stolen boat. Another interesting tidbit was the mileage on the car. Nell had her oil changed at the BP station on the south end of the key Friday afternoon. The little sticker they put on the window, you know the one that reminds you when your three thousand miles is up and you need more oil, didn’t jibe with the odometer. Somebody put a little over three hundred miles on it after the oil change. I don’t think Nell did that after she left the BP.”
    “Did you check the time of the service?”
    “Of course I checked. She paid with her VISA card at five fifteen Friday afternoon. And her neighbor told me that the BMW was in the driveway of Nell’s house between six and eight, because the neighbor was sitting on her front porch chatting with her husband during the entire two hours.”
    “What about the gun that was used to kill Nell?” I asked.
    “Nowhere to be found. He must have ditched it somewhere. I ran the ballistics through all the federal databases, and there’s no indication that the gun has been used in a shooting anywhere in the country since it was used to kill the Miami victims.”
    “Any thoughts on how he came into possession of that particular gun?”
    “No. And that scares the hell out of me. Where did he go in that BMW after he killed Nell? And where did he get the gun, and what did he do with it? He’s too young to have been involved in the Miami murders. Was he just a killer hired by the real Miami murderer? If so, where is the real killer, and why does he want me dead?”
    “This isn’t doing my indigestion any good. Did you get anything from Miami yet?”
    “Not yet. It should be along shortly.”
    “What about the statements?”
    “An FDLE agent’s coming down from Tampa. He’ll talk to me and then he’ll meet with you and Jock. I’ll call you when he gets here. Bye.”
    I related the information to Jock.
    “Doesn’t sound good, podna. Maybe I shot the wrong man. It’s obvious that he’s not the killer from Miami.”
    “It’s also pretty obvious that he’s the one who killed Nell.”
    “It could be just a fluke that the pistol ended up in Qualman’s hands. Or maybe, the killer from Miami is running this show and wanted to let J.D. know that he’s still out there.”
    “And you want the guy who ordered the hit.”
    “Damn right. It’s an article of faith in the agency that if you take out one of us, you pay the price. You die. And that applies to our families.”
    “You shot the right man. It just might not be the one you wanted most.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    J.D.’s call came an hour later. The FDLE agent was at the police station and ready to speak to us about the shooting. He met us in the lobby and identified himself as Don Fielding. He wanted to talk to Jock first, so I spent a few minutes reading an ancient magazine I found in the lobby. Jock came out and said the agent was ready for me.
    “That was quick,” I said.
    “He took one look at my credentials, called the number in Washington, and then talked about Florida State football for a while. He seems a bit obsessed with it.”
    I laughed. Jock carried credentials identifying him as a special agent of the president of the United States and giving him extraordinary powers. Jock told the agent to call a phone number in Washington, D.C. The number was to an office in the White House and the person who answered told the agent not to question Jock. He also told the agent that the agent’s boss in Tallahassee would call him right back. Fielding got the call within a minute, recognized the voice of the director of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, said yes sir, hung up, and turned the conversation to football.
    I didn’t have any credentials, so I spent the better part of an hour with Agent Fielding, answering all his questions. He was an astute interviewer, and by the time we finished, he knew exactly what I knew about what happened. We discussed Jock’s actions in protecting J.D., and Fielding