Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (29 page)

After our greetings, I said, “Jack, you told me Lester Sternwald had served some time for an adoption scam.”

“Uh huh. In the Limestone Correctional Facility, as I recall.”

“What kind of scam was he working?”

“Sternwald had a source inside one of the adoption agencies who told him when couples were rejected for one reason or another. He’d contact them and say he represented an unwed mother looking to place her child in a good home. He showed them pictures of some of the babies he’d placed—”

“Wait, do you think he might have used the Henderson babies?”

“He could have.”

“So what happened?”

“He strung these poor folks along, sucking them dry for phony medical expenses, for food and board. Hell, I think he even got money for plane tickets so they could fly the mother in for a visit. Of course, in the end the mother had a change of heart and they were left with nothing but empty promises that he’d find another baby for them.”

“And these people didn’t complain?”

“Think how desperate they must have been. They’d tried all the legitimate avenues only to be told they weren’t suitable parents. This was before people flew all over the world adopting Chinese, Russian and Vietnamese babies. Legitimate agencies had turned them down, and even if they suspected something shady, Sternwald was their last hope. I’d heard he had a girlfriend who posed as the unwed mother when the couples insisted on meeting the girl. They even had a baby to show them, but, of course, they never got to keep the kid.”

“How many times did he pull this stunt?”

“Not sure. At least a half-dozen times before someone went to the authorities.”

“Did he use the same baby?”

“I still have the file on my desk. Give me a minute.” He returned shortly. “Doesn’t say. Is that important?”

“I don’t know. Does the report say what happened to the baby he used as bait?”

“No. He probably had more than one.”

“Do me a favor, Jack. Check Christopher Henderson’s death certificate and see when he died.”

“You think he was one of the babies Sternwald used in the scam?”

“Could be.”

“Makes sense. And when the kid died, Sternwald probably found himself another one. I’ll check on it and let you know if I find anything.”

“There’s another thing. See if you can dig up some background on Amelia Faye—his sister. Including anything you can find on the adopted family.”

“Boy, you’re really straining our friendship,” he grumbled. “How about some professional courtesy for all this work I’m doing for you?”

“Sure. Whatever you need.”

“Cynthia and I are taking the grand-kids to Disney World in a few weeks and we thought we’d spend a day in St. Augustine.”

“That’s great. Dinner is on me. Just let me know when you’re coming in.”

“Well, actually, I was hoping you’d be able to get us some passes to the Alligator Farm. Scotty has this thing about gators and I promised him a visit.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Fortified by another cup of coffee, I decided to take care of a few things in St. Augustine before returning home. My call to Fuller had further triggered my curiosity about Henderson’s past. If Erin Marrano was his daughter, as I suspected, I wondered if the old man had kept any ties to his past. Perhaps somewhere in that landfill he called an office I’d find the adoption papers he signed when he turned the twins over to Sternwald.

After a few knocks on the door of the Martinez House, Watts opened it and greeted me with a perplexed look.

“What the hell happened to your face?”

“Careless accident. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” His blond hair was spiked haphazardly. He wore a pair of cut-off Levis and a red tank top exposing solid shoulders and arms ripped with muscles.

Inside, I offered my condolences on Henderson’s death. He hung his head for a moment before looking at me, his pale blue eyes gleaming with emotion.

“Thanks. I appreciate that. Guess I was all he had left in this world. Why did I have to pick that day to visit my cousin in Tampa? I should have been here for him when he needed me most.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it. I know he appreciated your friendship these last few months of his life. I understand he left you some money and the use of his home.”

Watts nodded.

“Have you done any cleaning?” I poked my trigger finger toward the ceiling.

“As a matter of fact, I’m already working on the housecleaning. You want to help?

“Not really, but I’d like to check on something.”

Watts had made quite a dent in the piles of boxes and old newspapers that littered the room. I commended him on his housekeeping skills.

“Mr. Henderson had a hard time throwing things away,” Watts said.

“Did you find anything of value?”

“Not unless you consider ten years worth of old magazines and newspapers valuable. He had boxes of his poetry books, too. Take some, if you want. I plan to donate them to the library and local schools.”

“Do you mind if I look through the desk?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Looking for anything in particular?”

I didn’t want to tell him too much about Henderson’s less than commendable past as a father figure, or that I thought my client was the dead man’s daughter. “I honestly don’t know. It’s a long shot, but I wondered if his suicide had any connection with Commissioner Marrano’s death.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I said it was a long shot. But stranger things have happened.”

“Go ahead if it’ll satisfy your curiosity. But his attorney’s already been here along with one of the police detectives. I don’t think you’re going to find much of anything.”

He was right. I rummaged through stacks of bills, old correspondence, the usual assortment of office supplies, and a drawer reflecting his obsessive-compulsive habits. It overflowed with paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, some worn down to the nub. I found markers, rulers and scraps of papers with odd phrases that might have been ideas for poems, but no adoption papers.

I thanked Watts for letting me snoop around and wished him well. “What’s next for you?” I asked him at the front door.

“I’ll see if the hospital needs anyone on their rehab staff. There’s always private work with people like Mr. Henderson who need personal therapy. Might as well hang around. At least I don’t have to pay any rent for the next year.”

Walking to my car, my internal pinball machine began flashing again telling me I’d missed something. I waited for a spark of inspiration, but nothing surfaced in my battered brain.

***

I left my car parked near Henderson’s house after pulling out my sunglasses. I was going to walk to the SAPD on King Street to see Marrano and I didn’t want to scare any young children. Besides, the light hurt my eyes, even though the sky was overcast.

I owed Buck Marrano my life, but more than that he was another of the central figures in this case. William Marrano was Buck’s brother, which made him Erin’s brother-in-law. He was also the first cop on the scene after Henderson’s death, and now I learned he and Serena had once been an item. I wondered where the coincidences stopped and conspiracy began.

My head reeled with the interlacing connections. After last night, I could relate even more with Walter Howard’s savage beating in 1964. Bat Marrano had brought his grandsons along to watch the Klan deliver white justice to the NAACP leader. In their own way, the two Marrano brothers made their mark on St. Augustine. One of them would become a Detective Commander in the St. Augustine Police Department, while his older brother, the dead vice mayor, a successful realtor and politician. In my mind, there was no question that William Marrano was the eager boy who took the first whack at Howard.

Unless I misread the signals, Marrano knew a lot more than he’d shared with me. I asked for him at the front desk. In less than a minute, he walked into the lobby pulling sunglasses from his shirt pocket. He studied my face for a moment, but said nothing, only shaking his head

“I haven’t eaten yet. Do you want to grab a sandwich next door?”

“Sure, I can eat.”

We walked to Flavor’s Eatery, a little sandwich shop on the corner of King and Riberia Streets. Taking our baskets outside, we sat at one of the umbrella-covered tables. A dump truck rumbled along King Street, grinding through gears as we chewed our sandwiches.

“Anything on my assault?” I asked him.

“Apparently, the lock on the service door had been picked. No fingerprints, but we got some partial footprints. I don’t think they’ll come to anything.” He slurped a large sweet tea through a straw and wiped his mouth.

“Doesn’t sound very hopeful,” I said.

“Not unless something else pops up. We didn’t find the note or your piece. Sorry.”

“I have a spare, but I hate to think this asshole’s still walking around loose.”

“I don’t like this sort of thing happening in my city, either. Makes us look bad.”

Sometimes first impressions are difficult to overcome. Buck Marrano made the worst kind of impression on me from the moment he jumped all over Jeffrey Poe, sucker-punched me, and later accosted me in the parking lot. After that, I had him pegged as a racist bully. Yet Serena had been smitten with him at one time. And let’s not forget the man saved my life.

“Listen, Buck, I want to thank you again for saving my ass. It took a lot of balls to go into that alligator pen in the middle of the night.”

He colored and seemed genuinely embarrassed by my remarks.

“Part of the job. I’m glad I was around when Ms. Howard called.” He rubbed a finger over his nose and gazed away, taking a sudden interest in the Methodist Church across the street

“Uh huh, part of the job. Serena told me about dating you a while back.”

“She did?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Damn, I would’ve liked to seen your face. Surprised?”

“You have to admit you’re not exactly the poster boy for racial harmony.”

“We were a lot younger then, and it didn’t last very long before we went our separate ways.”

We both knew the reason for their break-up. Walter Howard. Did he really think he could date Howard’s niece without having to face the ugly legacy left behind by his grandfather? Curious to hear what he’d say about Howard, I asked him, “This doesn’t have anything to do with the case, but you remember me telling you I’d met Serena’s uncle?”

“The N-double-A-CP guy?”

“That’s him. You know, he told me two kids were there when your grandfather crippled him. One of the boys even took part in the beating.”

Marrano stayed silent, gnawing at his lower lip. When he spoke again, his voice wavered and I strained to hear him. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

Was he talking about his brother? About Walter Howard? Or Bat Marrano? “Howard didn’t have much choice in the matter, if that’s what you mean. They tied him up and took him to a field where some maniacs crushed his knees with a club.”

Marrano’s eyes seemed to cloud over. Had his thoughts returned to that night in 1964? His memories must be filled with frightening bogeymen. But these monsters didn’t live under his bed or in the closet of his childhood imagination. One of them was his grandfather and the other his dead brother.

THIRTY-NINE

My cell phone drummed to life as I drove north on US 1 toward my Jacksonville Beach apartment. I expected to hear Fuller’s voice when I said
Hello
. Instead, another familiar voice said, “Mr. Mitchell, this is Pamela, Mr. Laurance’s executive assistant.” Voice clipped. All business.

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“Please hold for Mr. Laurance.” The line went dead and I held for Mr. Laurance.

Thirty seconds later, there was Kurtis Laurance’s unctuous voice. “How are you feeling, Mr. Mitchell? I understand you had a close call last night at the Alligator Farm.”

“That’s right, but I’m still above ground. I doubt if you’re really interested in my health, though, so why don’t you get to the point.”

“I’m sorry if we got off to a bad start. My life’s been a blur lately. Keeping up with my campaign schedule and shepherding all the construction details for Matanzas Bay hasn’t been easy. That’s no excuse for rude behavior, but there’s something important I’d like to discuss with you. If you’re feeling up to it, that is.”

Laurence had slipped into his politician’s persona, his voice ingratiating and appealing. “What is it?” I asked, letting my irritation show.

“Not on the phone. Can you come by my office?”

“Now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

I was only six miles from his office. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

Unlike my last visit, Laurance’s assistant was waiting for me when I entered the lobby. She ushered me into his office suite and closed the door behind her. Laurance rose from behind his ostentatious desk to greet me. He gripped my hand tightly, his other hand grasping my forearm. I expected to see Tallabois lurking in the background, but Laurance’s security chief was noticeably absent.

He examined my battered face. “Are you sure you’re all right? I have an excellent specialist I can recommend.”

“It looks a lot worse than it is. I’ll be back to my old handsome self in a few weeks.”

“Good.” He still clutched my hand. “Good,” he repeated, and we walked to the chairs by the window.

“I know you must be wondering why I called.”

“You might say that.”

“I felt bad after the little scene with Lem at the commission meeting. Also, I said some cruel things about Clayton Henderson and then the poor man commits suicide.” He shook his head and opened his hands as if to say,
who knew this would happen
. “It’s certainly been an eventful week for you.”

“Hasn’t it?”

“I wanted to apologize for Lem’s belligerence. He means well, but sometimes his sense of duty leads him astray.”

“Sounds like the definition of a loose cannon.”

“Perhaps, but that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to speak with you.”

Lifting the top folder from a stack lying on the table, Laurance held it a moment as though judging its weight. “This contains the latest poll figures from a survey taken last week. Although the first primary is more than a month away, it shows me twenty points ahead of the Attorney General, my most serious challenger, and nearly thirty points ahead of the Democratic candidates.”