Nobody Knows (14 page)

“They say Sarasota hasn’t been hit by a major hurricane in over forty years. I figure it’s only a matter of time before our luck runs out,” said a mother with a young child sitting in her shopping cart.

“I just got an evacuation zone map because I have no idea where I’m supposed to go,” responded another woman in a business suit.

“I was in the Keys when Hurricane Donna slammed in, back in 1960,” said a retiree. “Let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.”

After a few more short interviews, Cassie’s rumbling stomach told her it was time for lunch. She and Felix went back to the car, where Leroy was on his cell
phone with New York. “They aren’t sure if they’re going to use us tonight or not,” he said, snapping the phone closed. All three knew that meant they would have to proceed as if they were going to make air anyway. “Let’s go out to a beach and get some stuff there.” He checked his map. “The closest beach is Siesta.”

“Well, I’m starving,” chimed Felix to Cassie’s relief. “Let’s stop and get something to eat.”

“We’ll find someplace on the way,” said the producer.

They took Siesta Drive over the North Bridge and followed the curve that led them to Ocean Boulevard. They parked in front of the first place they found to eat. An open-air joint on the left-hand side of the road. The Old Salty Dog.

Most of the weathered picnic tables were empty. Cassie hoped that was not an indication of how the food was going to be. She ordered the English fish-and-chips, while Leroy and Felix ordered what the menu proclaimed to be the specialty of the house, Famous Salty Dogs—hot dogs dipped in beer batter and deep-fried.

“This may be a heart attack waiting to happen, but it’s the best damn thing I’ve eaten in a while,” said Leroy, munching away on the first of his two dogs.

Cassie supposed the deep-fried fillet of cod and the mound of golden french fries that filled her basket weren’t much healthier, but she didn’t care. It was delicious.

“Want a refill on that Diet Coke?” asked the blond waitress.

“Yes. Thanks,” answered Cassie. “The food is terrific.” She glanced at the empty tables around them. “I don’t understand why there aren’t more people here.”

“It’s our slow season,” said the waitress. “That, and I think people must be getting ready for the storm.”

A man wearing an apron came out from the kitchen. “Hey, Wendy, your son is on the phone.”

“Excuse me,” said the waitress. Cassie noticed the varicose vein on the back of the woman’s leg as she walked away. It was a tough way to make a living.

VINCENT WAS
angry as he hung up the phone. That was what he got for asking permission. A big, fat no. He was stuck inside the house on one of his last free afternoons because his mother had been called to work and he had to baby-sit for Mark again. It wasn’t fair.

Vincent looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It would be another two hours before his mother got home. He didn’t want to wait that long. “Come on, Mark,” he said, making up his mind. They could go to the beach and find Gideon and be back before their mother returned. If Mark kept his mouth shut, their mother would never be the wiser.

Though he could ill afford the time away from the marina, Jerry drove home at lunchtime. His muscles were aching and he craved a hot shower. He had lots more to do with the boats, but he had to take care of himself or he wouldn’t make it through.

He came out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist and held out a tube of Ben-Gay. “Put this on for me, will ya, Karen?”

His sister smoothed the ointment over Jerry’s back and shoulders. The stinging warmth penetrated his sore body. “Oh man, that feels good.”

“You’re getting quite a little gut there, Jerry boy,” Karen teased.

“That’s none of your business,” he growled, sucking in his stomach.

“Touchy, touchy.” She laughed.

Jerry grabbed the tube away from her and went to get dressed. When he came out of his room, a roast beef sandwich and side of potato salad were waiting
for him on the kitchen table. He wolfed his lunch down as Karen watched. “Stop staring at me, will you?”

“I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you today, Jerry, but don’t take your problems out on me.”

“There’s a little thing like a hurricane coming, Karen, or haven’t you heard?”

“Yeah, obnoxious one, I’ve heard. As a matter of fact, you’ll be glad to know I’m getting out of here till things blow over. I’m leaving this afternoon to go up to see Mom.”

Good riddance. He wanted the place to himself.

He wished he had never let her move in after her divorce. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, just until she got on her feet again. But six months later she still had no job and spent her days watching talk shows and soap operas. Jerry hoped Karen would be away for a good, long time. She was cramping his style.

Those parasailors were pushing the envelope, thought Deputy Gregg as he scanned the sky over the Gulf, watching their multicolored parachute sails quivering in the increasing winds. But, then again, this was the sort of weather that thrill seekers loved.

He dismounted his ATV after his midday patrol, wondering when the call would be made to issue a small-craft warning and close the beach. It was already fairly deserted, save for the walkers and runners. The graying skies made sunbathing useless.

As he entered his office at the pavilion, the phone was ringing. “Danny, it’s Bill in Forensics. I thought you’d want to know. We got a match on that print. AFIS had it on file from an old shoplifting charge.”

“What’s the name?” asked Danny.

“Merilee Quiñones. We’ve got an address on her. And, get this, Danny. One of the guys recognized her name. She stars in porno flicks!”

Sarge was putting this last concert of the tour on autopilot. His head was pounding, and there was no way he was driving up to Tampa tonight. All was in place. The free press passes had been sent to the newspapers, radio stations, and local television stations. He didn’t have to be there. His assistant could cover things. The promoter was relieved that the tour was finally over. Life on the road wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. It was a stressful grind.

When Sarge had signed on with the Boys Next Door, it had been fun to watch them become more and more popular, fun to be part of the team effort to make the group the sensation they now were. The sweetest pleasure and greatest satisfaction was that Sarge had brought them the song that became their biggest hit. “Brown-Eyed Baby” had gone platinum. Sarge’s name was on the CD label as songwriter, and the royalty checks had made him a wealthy man. He expected “Nobody Knows” to bring him even more good fortune.

Sarge took a bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine
cabinet and swallowed three tablets as the doorbell rang. He considered not answering, but the buzzing was persistent.

Two men in sports jackets, holding unfolded police credentials, stood outside. Sarge was unaware that they had just come from searching the condominium next door. “We’re detectives with the Sarasota Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Sarge looked closely at the credentials and waved the men inside, offering them a seat. One detective took notes, writing down Sarge’s name on a spiral pad, while the other asked the questions.

“Mr. Tucker, do you know your neighbor, Merilee Quiñones?”

“Of course I know her. She lives next door, doesn’t she?” Sarge was already aggravated with these guys.

“Do you know her well?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘well.’ She only moved in here about a year ago. I travel a lot, so I’m not around that much.”

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Tucker?”

“I’m in the music business.” Sarge indicated the framed gold record that hung over the sofa. “I promote the Boys Next Door.”

The detective rose from his chair and walked across the room to inspect the plaque. “Mmm. ‘Brown-Eyed Baby.’ That your song? My daughter dances around to that all the time.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The detective squinted to read the small black print on the gold-plated disc. “It says here you wrote the song. I thought you said you promoted the band.”

“That’s right. But I play around with music a little bit, too.”

“That’s pretty impressive.”

“I read in the newspaper this morning that your band played a brand-new song at Ringling last night.”

“Yes. ‘Nobody Knows.’ I wrote that, too.”

The detective didn’t comment as he went back to his chair. “When was the last time you saw Miss Quiñones?”

Sarge thought fast. How should he respond? Someone could have seen them talking. “It must have been last week sometime,” he answered, trying to appear nonchalant as he considered his next words. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was a week ago today. I had to come back into town to take care of some business, and I saw Merilee in the driveway.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing special, as I recall,” Sarge lied. “She was excited about the band coming to Sarasota for a concert.”

“So you must have been at the concert at Cà d’Zan last night?” the detective led, glancing at his partner.

“Yes, I was.” Sarge shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, anticipating what was coming.

“I suppose you are aware that there was a murder after the concert last night.”

Sarge nodded.

“Did you know the man who was murdered? Leslie Sebastien?”

“Vaguely. I patronized his jewelry store occasionally.”

“That’s quite a coincidence, Mr. Tucker. You know Mr. Sebastien
and
Miss Quiñones?”

“I don’t catch your drift.”

“Well, we know Mr. Sebastien was murdered and we have reason to believe that Miss Quiñones was. You knew them both.”

THE DETECTIVES
got into their car.

“What do you think?” asked one.

The other shrugged. “I don’t know. He looked genuinely surprised when you said the woman was dead.”

“He could be just a good actor. We already know he was lying about one thing.”

“You mean about not really knowing the porno queen?”

“Mmm-hmm. That file on her desk was thick with clippings about the success of the Boys Next Door, and that letter from the attorney leaves no doubt that she was going to sue the pants off our friend Mr. Tucker.”

The car pulled down the driveway from the condominium complex.

“I don’t know, Jack,” said the driver. “Do you really think she could have written that new song?”

“Whether she did or she didn’t, you can bet the band’s promoter, the same guy that takes credit for writing the song himself, wouldn’t want the hassle and expense of a lawsuit. Not to mention all that bad publicity.”

Vincent so wanted to know how much Gideon had gotten for the ring last night, but his friend was not at his post on the pier. So that the forbidden trek to the beach wouldn’t be a total loss, Vincent pulled Mark along the shoreline and looked for sharks’ teeth.

“Sharks are always losing their teeth and growing new ones . . . thousands of them!” He recited for his little brother the facts that Gideon had taught him. “Some of these teeth we’re finding are prehistoric, Mark, because sharks have lived around here for millions of years. The teeth drop to the bottom of the sea, and then they wash up on the shore because of the waves and the tides.”

Mark squatted down to inspect the wet sand. “Here’s one!” the boy proclaimed, holding a small, smooth, black triangle up for Vincent to see.

Vincent studied the tooth. “That’s cool. But what’s really sweet is finding a white one, because that’s from a
living
shark. I have hundreds of these black ones, and gray ones and brown ones. Those are the old
ones. But I only have two white ones. Those are the best.”

Mark listened to his brother with the wide-eyed wonder that the younger has for an older sibling. They continued sifting through the sand until, inevitably, Mark began to cough. Vincent wanted to smack him. He was always messing up everything.

“Come on,” he said grudgingly, “we better go back before Mom gets home. And you better not tell her we came out here or I’ll kill you.”

“I won’t tell, Vincent. I promise.”

The brothers began to trudge through the sand. Vincent glanced down the beach and noticed with excitement the television people he had seen up at Ringling this morning. The camera guy was taking pictures of that Cassie lady standing with her back to the Gulf, talking into her microphone. Vincent pulled Mark’s arm and made him run in time to hear Cassie record her stand-up.

“Late this afternoon, a small-craft advisory was posted along the Gulf coast, officials warning small boats not to venture into the open sea. Sarasota is now on an official hurricane watch, which means forecasters think Giselle, at least until Thursday morning, poses a threat to coastal areas here. A hurricane watch means that hurricane conditions are a real possibility. It
does not
mean a storm is about to strike. Cassie Sheridan, KEY News, Siesta Key, Florida.”

As the reporter unclipped her microphone, she looked over and recognized Vincent. “You again, huh? You get around, don’t you?”

“So do you.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Cassie smiled with amusement. “Who’s this?”

“It’s only my little brother.”

“Does your little brother have a name?”

“Mark.”

“Hello, Mark.” Cassie bent forward to shake the child’s hand. The boy began to cough.

“Aww. He’s always doing that.” Vincent was impatient. “He has cystic fibrosis.”

“I see,” said Cassie softly. “That must be hard for
both
of you.”

Vincent looked at her skeptically. Did she really understand? Nobody ever seemed to. They were always feeling sorry for Mark but never paid any attention to how hard it was for
him
. Squirming, Vincent changed the subject. “Hey, you want to interview me?”

“Haven’t you been on television enough lately?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’d be good to talk to. I know what I’m doing.”

Cassie winked at Felix. “Okay, why not?” She clipped her microphone to Vincent’s T-shirt.