The Old Farts In The Keys

The Old Farts In The Keys

By Richard F Hill

Copyright 2016 Richard F. Hill

Private Detective McKenzie Ford loves the adventure of strange cases. He and his cohorts find themselves in Key Largo involved in a vigilante style assault on a New Jersey (where else?) mob family on a multi-million dollar yacht.

The Old Farts In The Keys is the third in the series of novels which take our sometimes fearless group of old Vietnam Veterans into numerous interesting and odd mysteries. There is an introduction at the end of the book called "Meet The Old Farts" which you may wish to read before beginning Chapter 1.

Other books in The Old Farts Series

The Old Farts In Miami

The Old Farts in The Swamp

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Other books by Richard F Hill

Iron Soldiers In Vietnam

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

About The Author

Titles By Richard F Hill

Contact Richard F Hill

Meet The Old Farts

Chapter 1

The taxi came to a stop at the end of the street. A misty rain drizzled outside the car, warping the glow from the streetlights as he handed the fare to the driver. A quick glance out the back windshield failed to confirm if the car had continued to follow them or not.

Frank Leonard pulled up the collar of his coat before reaching for the handle. As he opened the door, he watched the dark street behind the cab. Cars were parallel parked down both sides of the street, but he couldn't tell if any of them were the same vehicle that had haunted him the past ten minutes. Taking a deep breath, as he tried to reassure himself, he exited the taxi and began walking through the dreary downpour.

The rows of brownstones variated minutely, each turn leading to another strip of bricks with windows and doors. The stoops had different decorative items or none at all. Some had the fake window shutters. Windows were bright or dark in random places. Frank paid little attention, as his eyes scanning, searching the shadowy depths of the dark cars for movement or the bright orange glow of a cigarette.

Feeling foolish, as the rain began to make its way to the clothing under his coat, his black hair slicked down to his face and neck. He should have let the cabbie drop him at the door, but his paranoia had him convinced that darting down the tiny alleys between every few doors and hurrying past streets would help reveal any suspicious movement.

Glancing ahead of him, just three doors down he saw his own lit up stoop with the hemp welcome mat and potted fern. Headlights suddenly washed over him, lighting everything in front. His breath hitched as a cold knot of fear built up inside. The car, a dark four-door sedan, passed at a slow speed. Frank reminded himself that it was a residential area of New York City, at night, in the rain, and any semi-intelligent person would drive with caution. It didn’t relieve the terror that caused his hands to shake and his feet to stumble.

Keeping his eyes on the red door with the brass knocker, he refused to look up and see where the car had gone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key chain, looking down to make sure he was holding the correct key. Sliding it into the deadbolt, he looked in the direction the car had been going. Nothing stood out or seemed different, and he couldn't tell if one of the shadowed shapes down the street was the same car or not.

The lock disengaged and he pushed into the house, quickly spinning back to the door to turn the deadbolt and slide the chain lock into place. Releasing a deep breath, he put his eye up to the peek hole, expecting to see the dark form of some man looming from the top of the steps. There was no one there.

His shoes squelched with the cold water that puddled on the floor around him. Debra was going to kill him. He almost snickered at the thought. Of all the dangers he had faced lately, his wife was probably the least of any of them, and yet enough to still cause him concern.

Deb? Kids? Frank said, as he took in the silence of the normally chaotic house. Where is everyone?

Frowning, he hung his coat on the hook by the door. He removed his sopping shoes and placed them on the rug next to the two sets of small tennis shoes and his wife's black flats. She was adamant about taking off your shoes at the door but was also strict about only leaving one pair at the door at a time. If Frank wore boots, then his tennis shoes needed to be put in the bottom of the coat closet. The pocket door was set in the wall just past the shoe rug and was tightly closed. They had to be home. The pink and green jackets hung between his brown drenched coat and his wife's black knee length one.

Hellooo? He walked down the hall and peeked to the right, where the living room sat quietly, only a small table lamp by the couch was on.

The archway to the kitchen from the living room and the one in the hall cast the brightest glow into the darkened house. As he passed the kitchen, heading towards the stairs, he looked in. The room was empty. The cutting board was on the kitchen island. A small pile of produce sat to one side. On the counter was a package of meat, unopened. The round table in the back of the kitchen was orderly, no coloring pages or toys, and no children.

Debra? Frank felt the icy pit of fear returning to weigh down his stomach. His heart began to speed up as he hurried up the stairs two at a time, only to come to an abrupt halt as soon as he could see the carpet floor above him.

Debra! His voice came out in a cry, Oh God!

Frank collapsed to his knees, crawling up the last few steps and onto the blood-soaked carpet around his wife's body. Her eyes were open, glazed over with her makeup melted by the tears she had shed before her death. He choked on his sobs as his hands hovered around her head. A dark red circle on her forehead glared at him, taunting him with how it had marred her perfect face. He felt something inside himself begin to crumble before he jerked up in horror.

Aiden? Tara? He screamed his children's' names as he scrambled to his feet, nearly collapsing against the door frame to the lavender-tinted room.

The bed was unmade, the white comforter pushed away from the place where his daughter's small form should have been sleeping. Her rainbow nightlight cast odd stripes of color across the floor and walls. The closet was closed, her curtains pulled shut, and there was no sign of Tara.

Once his brain caught up with his eyes, telling him the room was empty, he hurried further down the hall. He only glanced at the bathroom as he passed, not seeing anyone as he reached for the last door at that end of the hall. His legs gave out as the deep bubble of pain pushed through his body, releasing itself in a wail of agony.

Aiden's bed was more disheveled than Tara's. The blankets trailed onto the floor. His bedside lamp was on but lay on its side with the shade at an odd angle to cast a large cone of light at the open closet door and the gruesome scene that spilled from the dark interior.

Tara could barely be seen except for her long brown curls spilling around her brother's arms as his body still covered hers in the protection he had tried to give. Three dark holes stood out on the back of Aiden's t-shirt. Frank grabbed his son by the shoulders and gently pulled him back, only to gag as the boys head lolled on his shoulders and the body slumped to the ground. Released, Tara's form collapsed forward, her mass of hair hiding her face.

The bullets had torn through his son and into his daughter. The nine-year-old boy had hidden in the closet, trying to protect his four-year-old sister to no avail. Frank reached one arm out to each side, grabbing his children and pulling them close. Their bodies folded awkwardly inward as he tried to hold them, his sobs wracking his body.

In the distance, the sound of sirens grew louder, and Frank lifted his head to listen to the approach of help. But then, with a sickening realization, he pushed himself away from his children. He had made a mess of the crime scene. He had moved them when he shouldn't have, changed their positions. Blood covered the front of his button up shirt and tie, his hands, probably even his face.

Carefully climbing to his feet, he walked backward, staring in horror at his children's mangled forms. Turning, he walked down the hall, trying not to stop and grab up his wife, plead for her to wake him up from this nightmare. At the other end of the hall, his bedroom door was open and the light was on.

Walking in, he saw what he had feared. His Colt .45 was on the bed. The room was trashed as if someone had gone berserk. The lamp was broken, clothing tossed everywhere. One of the black leather suitcases was on the floor. His wife's clothing hanging out, her purse thrown on top. As his eyes scanned the room, he saw her wedding bands on the nightstand next to a note.

He didn't need to see the note. He needed to run. The set-up was a familiar story, although he had never expected to see it for himself. The Cavoy family had made their signature move on someone who owed them money. He was being framed for the death of his family. As he grabbed the gun and ran back out of the room, down the stairs, and to the front door, he could picture the note. His wife would accuse him of an affair and taking money for gambling. It would say something about her leaving with the kids.

He shoved his feet into his shoes and his arms through his coat. The sirens were on his street, close and coming fast. He spun around and ran down the hall, past the stairs and bathroom to the washroom. The lock on the back door hung him up for only a moment, although it felt like a lifetime, before he was back in the rain, running through the dark. The knowledge of his children's blood all over him, the fact he had helped with the frame job in his panic and grief only fueled his anger.

Frank Leonard knew he would get caught. He knew they would pin the murders on him. He knew that even if he was able to somehow convince a court that the Cavoy crime family was behind the murders, that he would still risk their killing him. No matter what he did, he was a dead man. All he could do, the only thing he could do, was make sure that if he did go to jail for murder, it would be one he actually committed.

Chapter 2

Narrowing his eyes at the mess in front of him, Phil Bailey was having a difficult time understanding what the man was saying. Keeping his eyes on the blubbering fellow, Phil reached into the lower right drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jameson’s Scotch. He sat the bottle on the desk and pushed it towards the man.

I think you need this more than I do right now. Phil cocked his head to the side, I am beginning to get the drift of your problem, but if you can't get your story out nice and straight, I'm not going to be able to help you, you understand?

The dark haired man nodded, hanging his head before reaching for the bottle. Spinning off the cap, he grabbed the neck and dumped 4 or 5 ounces of liquor down his throat. Putting the bottle back on the desk, he left off the cap, knowing he would want more before he was finished talking.

Let's start again. Obviously, you're in trouble. Now, judging from the manner you used to contact me and the necessity of us meeting in this particular location, I'm assuming the law is one of your current troubles. I need you to tell me why and what you're expecting me to do about it.

Phil Bailey had received the call earlier that morning. One of his old confidential informants had contacted him with information regarding a man that needed his help. Usually, that would have no bearing on Phil, and he would give the guy a smartass answer and hang up. But his informant had been feeding him information for years on the one black scar across Phil's time as a police officer and detective; the Cavoy crime family.

Headed by Donald Donny Cavoy, the family was neck deep in all the usual business of the underworld including murder, drugs, trafficking, and corruption in both political and commercial endeavors. They were also the squeakiest clean crime family in New York. Not one crime could be fully tied back to them. Donny Cavoy was diligent in making everyone in the tops ranks followed the family rules. They hired the slimiest lawyers and kept the most corrupt cops in their pocket. The dirty work was always done by throw-away two-bit criminals, or at least a setup for someone to take the fall.

Every case Phil Bailey had ever worked on that involved the Cavoys always ended in a very improbable suspect with three times the evidence needed for a conviction, or with a frustrating amount of absolute nothing. He had cursed the family during many sleepless nights and pictured every bullet he shot as zooming to nestle between Donny's eyebrows. They were cruel, rich, and disgustingly capable of keeping their criminal empire floating in the city with ease.

Because this distraught and filthy man in front of him had uttered the Cavoy name with such hate and disgust, Phil was ready to hear him out. The difficulty now was understanding the man when he began sobbing or yelling. His clothing was filthy with sweat and dirt and hung loosely on his thin frame. Phil's informant had told him the man was wearing clothing that he had traded with some bum on the street due to the DNA evidence on what he had been wearing.

Phil had his informant bring the man to the other office. Some cases didn't have enough evidence, some criminals were dealt with off the books, and Phil Bailey was a man that worked in the gray areas of justice. His secondary office was in a rougher part of Brooklyn, whereas his main private investigation practice had a much nicer headquarters in Lower Manhattan.

The man across from Phil had hung his head again, taking deep slow breaths. Phil folded his hands in his lap, finding himself glad that he had the patience to deal with these situations as he looked at the cell phone, with the battery and SIM card pulled out, lying on the desk in front of him. His informant had been smart enough to make sure it was disassembled before being brought to the office, another small thing that helped Phil give the man a break about needing him at this location without a full explanation.

What is your full name? Phil watched the man slowly