Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (25 page)

As I drove by the modest bungalow where the brutal murder happened, I thought about the obvious parallels between that case and Marrano’s death. Both involved well known, highly visible members of the community; one an elected official, the other appointed. In both cases a nasty public feud might have provided the motive for a murderous act. While the county manager had been acquitted, I feared if Jeffrey Poe’s case went to trial he wouldn’t be so lucky.

I parked near the San Sebastian Winery and walked to the construction site on Malaga Street. A chain link fence surrounded the entire 15 acres. A billboard with the architectural rendering of Matanzas Bay provided a vivid picture of what this site would look like 18 months from now. Currently, it resembled a giant’s sand box, complete with bulldozers, stacks of reinforced concrete pipes, and a mountain of fill dirt. I closed my eyes and attempted to match the artist’s rendering to the massive patch of ground, sketching in the red-tiled roof of the hotel, the balconied condos looking out on a marina filled with boats. The image sparked brightly for a moment before fading away.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a crew of workers busily erecting a huge tent by the waterfront in preparation for Saturday’s groundbreaking festivities. The ramshackle warehouses had been razed, and the damp dirt seemed barren and cold. Still, the enormous potential in this piece of land was apparent. No doubt both Kurtis Laurance and Mayor Cameron would invoke Marrano’s name when they made their speeches in the morning. Marrano may have been a visionary as Laurance had said, but I couldn’t help thinking what a tremendous price he’d paid by crawling into bed with Laurance.

That thought brought to mind Laurance’s strange comment suggesting I take a look at the parcels of land outside the Matanzas Bay property line. What the hell had he meant by that? Only one way to find out.

I walked south past the fence onto a large weed-filled lot about a quarter the size of the fenced-in area construction site. The remains of what looked like an old garage sat a hundred feet back from the road. Three large garage doors were covered with ancient dirt and more recent graffiti. Plywood with No Trespassing signs covered the windows of the concrete block structure. Several padlocked storage sheds were clumped behind the garage. A dozen or more cars and pick-up trucks lined the side of the property nearest to the fence. They probably belonged to the construction workers, I guessed.

Walking north to the end of the block, I counted 280 steps from one side to the other and estimated it was at least as deep. I wondered why Laurance hadn’t bought the property to add to the Matanzas Bay project.

To the east of the development site was a block of dilapidated shops. I wasn’t sure if this was part of the property Laurance wanted me to inspect, but I walked to the other end to examine it. What looked to be the original prototype strip shopping center snaked along the intersection of Malaga and Lorida Streets. Five ancient concrete block stores, low-slung and desperately in need of a coat of paint. Three of them were obviously vacant with For Rent signs taped to the windows. One of the other two contained a storefront chapel. The hand-painted banner over the window proclaimed,
Christ died for your sins
. The other store advertised
Laser Hair Removal. Now under new management.

The thought of these desolate parcels of land sitting next to a multi-million dollar development like Matanzas Bay made no sense. Someone could make a nice profit by selling to the St. Johns Group, and I again wondered why the construction fence didn’t extend around both of these pieces of property. This must be what Laurance wanted me to see.

Satisfied I’d found the source of Laurance’s cryptic statement, if not the answer to the mystery, I started back to where I parked my car. Before I reached the Camry, I spotted a familiar figure leaning against a familiar black car. Lem Tallabois stood as I approached, arms stiff, fists clenched, storm clouds scudding across his face.

“You keep stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong and you might lose it.”

I smiled at him and raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “If it ain’t the New Orleans boogey man. How’s your finger?”

Tallabois answered me with a different finger, but didn’t try to stop me when I kept walking toward my car.

“You’re pushin’ your luck, PI man.” He stepped forward, his thick body and scarred face combining to give him the look of a thuggish street enforcer. “Don’t say you ain’t been warned, boy.” Tallabois slid the lapel of his jacket back to show me the gun tucked under his arm.

I ignored him and climbed into the car, slammed the door and sped away.

***

Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the County Jail. Someone called my name as I walked toward the entrance, and I turned to see Chief Milo Conover hustling toward me.

Despite the humidity and the excess weight he carried, Conover looked fresh and cool. “I’m glad I ran into you, Mr. Mitchell.”

“How’s that, Chief?” There may be any number of reasons why the St. Augustine Police Chief was happy to see me, but I couldn’t think of any at the moment

“Henderson’s death has been officially ruled a suicide by the ME. That little note he wrote in his poetry book pretty well nailed it.” He moved closer to me and I smelled the sweet scent of peppermint on his breath.

I said nothing and he reminded me. “No more clicks of the clock left for me.”

“Uh huh.” I tried to recall the image of the man running away from the lighthouse the night Henderson plunged to his death, but nothing came to mind.

“We spoke to his physical therapist. He confirmed that Mr. Henderson had been drinking a great deal and seemed to be depressed about something. Henderson wouldn’t talk to him about it, just kept drinking. Do you think it was the knee surgery?”

“He seemed to be coping with the surgery rather well.”

“I suspect Henderson was an alcoholic,” Conover said. “Who knows what goes through their heads when they’re deep in the bottle. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know we’ve put this one to bed and you won’t have to testify. Of course, we may need to question you more about the other case.”

“When the time comes, I suspect you’ll know where to find me.”

We walked together into the lobby. “You’re here to see Mr. Poe.”

It wasn’t a question. I simply nodded, and he disappeared through a door marked Employees Only.

***

Jeffrey Poe quietly considered the news I gave him about Henderson. He sat on the other side of the reinforced glass drumming the fingers of his left hand against the plywood shelf. His fingernails were gnawed to the quick. A scab had formed at the edge of one bloody cuticle. He noticed me looking at his hand and the drumming ceased.

“Sorry, Quint. Guess I’m wound up pretty tight,” he mumbled into the phone.

“That’s all right. What do you think about Clayton?”

“I can’t believe he’s dead.”

“It was a shock for me, too.”

“He loved that old lighthouse, so I guess it’s a fitting way for him to end it. Still …” He paused as though he’d run out of words and chewed at a cuticle on his little finger.

“Don’t know if it had anything to do with it, but Henderson had a lot of baggage,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“Did you know about his two kids?”

“He had kids?”

“Twins. But he gave them up for adoption back in Alabama when they were still infants.”

“He never mentioned it.”

“That’s not the sort of thing you discuss over a glass of port.” The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that Henderson’s drinking and mood swings revolved around those two kids he’d abandoned, not his knee surgery as Chief Conover suggested.

“Maybe that played into his depression,” I said. “Not to be too philosophical about it, but there comes a time when we look back on the things we’ve done and it weighs heavily on us.”

His fingers rapped the wood again before he caught himself and stopped.

I continued. “Some people build inner calluses or perhaps they’re missing a conscience, so it doesn’t bother them. Henderson wasn’t like that, and I suspect he still felt the pain of his actions. Anyway, I’m sorry to bring you more depressing news.”

Poe’s eyes had taken on the disconnected look I associated with a doomed animal. In the wild, predators feed on the weak and the cycle of death and survival goes on. After a brief struggle, when a lion chased down a wildebeest or a fox snagged a rabbit, the prey understood its time had come. If you’ve watched any of the
animals in the wild
documentaries on the National Geographic or Animal Planet channels, you’ve seen what happened next. All struggles cease and their eyes took on a glazed look of acceptance. Jeffrey Poe had that same hollow-eyed look.

“I’ve made some inquiries about your attorney. Wannaker is extremely well respected. I know he’s been busy taking depositions, and I’m sure between us we’ll uncover something. You can’t give up.”

His fingers started drumming again. I heard him sigh, his head bobbing as though in rhythm to his finger percussion.

“Jeffrey, listen to me. There’s something else I have to tell you. I went to see Denny Grimes today thinking he might be a suspect.”

Poe jerked to attention. The drumming ceased, a spark of life returning to his eyes.

“I’d forgotten that Marrano had him fired. Denny probably hated him more than I did.”

“That’s what I thought. He had motive and opportunity and not a very good alibi. But he said he saw you at the Trinity Parish site the morning of the murder. You were carrying a shovel.”

“That’s ridiculous. I was home in bed. Do you think he’s part of the frame-up?”

“I don’t think so. And I don’t believe it was you he saw, but he saw someone.”

“Why did he think it was me?”

“He said the man was wearing a hat like the one you wear at the digs. You must still have the hat since you were wearing it Monday.”

Poe stared at me a moment, his eyes searching mine.

“You do have it?”

“I have it, but …” He put a hand to his forehead.

“But what?”

“I always loop it over the doorknob of the door of my artifact room.”

Now I remembered seeing it there the night of the dinner party.

“But it wasn’t there when I looked for it Monday. I looked everywhere in the house and couldn’t find it.” He started chewing on another cuticle.

“But you were wearing it at the dig,” I said.

“I finally gave up looking. As I left the house, I almost tripped over the hat. It was lying on the ground by the front door.”

“I can’t see you leaving your hat on the ground. It’s more likely that whoever stole the bayonet also borrowed your hat and returned it when he planted the evidence in your storage shed.”

Thinking I should change the subject, I told him, “I went by the Malaga Street construction site before I came by to see you. The ground-breaking is in the morning.”

“That’s it, then.”

“What?”

“Once they break ground it’s all over.”

“What do you mean?”

“They want this case over and done with. The city commissioners. The police. Everybody. Once they start construction it will be the same as writing my death warrant. No embarrassing loose ends left over.”

“You’re going to get a fair trial. Wannaker will see to that.”

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes moist. “It doesn’t matter if I’m innocent, they need a scapegoat. When those bulldozers start moving dirt you might as well order my casket.”

THIRTY-TWO

My cell phone rang as I left the jail. I thought it might be Jack Fuller with the information I’d asked for, but when I flipped it open
Casa Monica Hotel
was displayed on my Caller ID. Probably Serena breaking our dinner date.

“I only have a minute, Quint,” she said without preamble, “but I wanted you to know I’m still expecting you for dinner tonight.”

“You are?” I’m sure I sounded incredulous.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

I would have jumped at the chance to salvage our relationship if this call had come last week, but now I wasn’t sure if that’s what I wanted. My mind flashed back to an image of Erin Marrano, my arms around her, our bodies pressed together, the sweet taste of her mouth on mine.

I said, “Yeah, you’re right. What time?”

“Our sales meeting will run until about six. Why don’t you come over around eight? I’ll fix dinner. Nothing fancy.”

After our disastrous lunch date last week when everything turned to shit, I desperately wished for another chance to make things right. Like a character in H. G. Wells’
The Time Machine
, I pictured myself zipping back in time and changing the outcome of that hour. Given another chance, I would have turned off my phone. I certainly wouldn’t have told her she looked like the dead girl.

But that was last week. Now I only wanted to get on with my life. Besides, if I really had a time machine there were more important things in my life I’d change. And they would begin with a trip back to my seventeenth year. I touched the dolphin medallion and my mind flashed to an image of Andrew’s bleeding corpse, only to be replaced by my father’s anguished face.

In the parking lot outside the jail, I spotted a yellow piece of paper tucked beneath my windshield wiper. A parking ticket? That didn’t make any sense since there were no parking meters in the county lot. I pulled the slip of paper out and realized it had been torn from a sheet of yellow lined paper. Unfolding it, I read the handwritten note before looking around. Only a few people were in the lot and none of them paid me any attention. I returned to the note, reading it once again.

I have information that will clear Jeffrey Poe and help you find William Marrano’s murderer. Meet me at the Alligator Farm tonight at 10PM. Come alone. Park in front by Conservation Center to the right of the main entrance. Wait for me.

THIRTY-THREE

I watched as Serena stir-fried the vegetables and shrimp in an oily wok. She tossed a dash of cumin and a tablespoon of Szechwan sauce into the mix before turning down the burner and covering the wok with the top to an aluminum pot.