The Hound of the Sanibel Sunset Detective (18 page)

“Which you were,” Tree said.

“When you’re doing it with your husband, it’s not sleeping around,” Freddie said.

“I stand corrected,” Tree said.

“What about you? I’m leaving you stranded here with Clinton. What are you going to do, my love?”

“I’m going to do something. I’m not exactly sure what it is just yet.”

“You should have a goal,” Freddie said. “That’s what I tell everyone at work. There should be an endgame that sets you up for success, and provides the outcome you desire.”

“Good advice,” Tree said.

“So then tell me, what is your goal?”

“To retire so I can keep you happy.”

“Tree, I’m serious. We’re hiding out on a boat with a dog, and we aren’t even certain why we’re doing it.”

“We are trying to keep this guy safe,” Tree said, pointing to Clinton who had returned to his favorite place on the rear deck seat and now watched them with a slightly quizzical expression, not sure what these humans were up to this morning.

“But how long does that go on?”

“I don’t know. What do you want me to do, Freddie?”

“Consider turning Clinton over to the authorities. They will keep him safe.”

“You have more faith in the authorities than I do.”

Freddie took a deep breath and tried not to look exasperated. “Okay, then talk to me about next steps.”

“Next steps?”

“Yes, what are you going to do next?”

“Take the dog for a walk,” Tree said.

“That’s not much of a plan,” Freddie said.

“But a very necessary step in this dog’s life.”

“I can’t say I didn’t try.” She came over and kissed him on the mouth. “I’ve got to get to work. I hate to leave you here.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tree said.

“Are we staying here tonight?”

Tree shrugged. “I’m not sure. I suppose we should.”

“Okay, I’ll get back as soon as I can. Maybe we can figure this out together.”

“Bring some food, will you?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She smiled and kissed him again. “Meanwhile, please stay out of trouble.”

“I always try,” Tree said.

“Try harder,” Freddie replied.

_________

By now it was apparent to Tree that, although he was surrounded by it, Clinton had no love for the water. He watched the dog bound along the sand, careful to skirt the incoming swell of the river, fearful of getting his paws wet. Clinton was definitely his kind of dog, Tree having much the same aversion to the water.

Clinton preferred searching out the infinite variety of landlocked scents. He turned abruptly and padded off the sand up onto a grassy patch offering new smells to be investigated. Why not just walk on beaches with Clinton for the rest of his days? He could be content doing that. Beach walks with Clinton and lovemaking on boats with Freddie. As long as the boats were at a dock, and not bouncing around in the ocean. That would be a life. Carefree. The sort of thing he should be enjoying at his age. He was lost in the fantasy when his cellphone rang. He fished it out of his pocket.

“Mr. Callister?” a honey-dipped voice said.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Callister, this is T. Emmett Hawkins.”

“Emmett Hawkins, the lawyer?” Hawkins was a prominent Fort Myers attorney who had represented one of Tree’s clients.

“We’ve met before, Mr. Callister.”

“Indeed we have, Mr. Hawkins. Not under the best of circumstances, I’m afraid.”

“Well, in the business we are both in, people seldom meet under the best circumstances. If it were any different, we would be out of business.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I’m returning your call, Mr. Callister.”

“I wasn’t calling you.”

“I have a message here that says you called.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“The thing of it is, I’ve put aside an hour on my calendar. Why don’t you drop around so we can talk? I have an hour free at eleven.”

“Unfortunately, today, I don’t have a car.”

“I’ll send my man to pick you up. Where are you located?”

“I’m at Gulf Harbor.”

“My man will pick you up at 10:30 a.m. in front of the main clubhouse. I look forward to seeing you, Mr. Callister.”

And before Tree could object further, T. Emmett Hawkins hung up.

28

C
linton returned to Tree, ears flopping, as if concerned his new friend might desert him. At least that was Tree’s reading of what appeared to be Clinton’s anxiousness. He bent down and rubbed the dog’s chest. Clinton leaned against Tree’s leg. “Don’t worry, boy,” Tree said. “No one’s going to leave you.”

Together, they walked back to the
Former Actor Too
, Tree thinking about the strange call from T. Emmett Hawkins. What could the lawyer possibly want with him?

He was about to find out.

Tree found a bowl in one of the cupboards that he filled with water. While the dog lapped it up, Tree tried the cramped little shower in the head. Not much luck there. The shower nozzle produced a dribble of water. The
Former Actor Too
was ill-prepared for overnight guests.

Tree stared at his unshaven visage in the tiny mirror above the sink. The light was all wrong. It made him look like an old man. Impossible. It had to be the lousy light, although as he shifted his gaze away from the mirror he had to concede that in his faded jeans, wrinkled gray T-shirt, and beat-up old deck shoes—clothes he had been wearing for twenty-four hours—he looked less the private investigator on his way to meet one of Fort Myers’ most prestigious lawyers, and more like a beach bum asking for spare change.

An old beach bum? No. It was the bad lighting in the bathroom. He must talk to Rex and get him to fix that.

He hooked Clinton to his leash and led him off the boat along the dock to the drive that swung around the Gulf Harbor clubhouse. A black Range Rover was parked in front of the entrance. Leaning against its rear fender with his arms folded was a muscular Asian man, black hair close-cropped. The mustache and goatee lent a dangerous air to him. The beautifully cut Hugo Boss suit suggested the smart business professional.

As Tree approached, the Asian man straightened, unfolding his arms, eyeing the dog. “You are Tree Callister?” As though he didn’t quite believe it.

“That’s me,” Tree said.

“You can’t bring the dog,” the driver said.

“I beg your pardon,” Tree said.

“No dog. Not in the Range Rover.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t allow dogs in my Range Rover.”

“This is your vehicle?”

The driver looked at him for a couple of beats before he said, “Dog gets hair all over the seat.”

“Then I can’t go with you,” Tree said.

“Mr. Hawkins is waiting for you. I’m supposed to drive you to him.”

“Not if I can’t bring the dog.”

The driver shifted around as though deciding whether or not to beat Tree to a pulp. He said, “Careful with that dog.”

He opened the rear door to admit Tree. “Name’s Lu,” he said. “Spelled L-U. I don’t like to be stereotyped.”

“No,” Tree said.

“You know, people thinking I’m this thing.”

“This thing,” Tree said.

“Because of the way I look. My look.”

“Of course not,” Tree said.

“I’m fighting against that,” Lu said. “Even though, when it comes to taking care of things, I can take care of things. Know what I mean?”

“You take care of things,” Tree said.

“I take care of things for Mr. Hawkins.”

Clinton hopped nimbly into the rear seat. Tree slipped into the front while Lu eased himself behind the wheel and started the engine.

“But I’m only doing this temporarily,” Lu said. “I’m actually a screenwriter.”

“Is that so?” Tree said.

“I’ve written a script,” Lu said. “An action thing. Hollywood wants action these days, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” Tree said.

Lu swung the car around the drive and out to the Gulf Harbor entranceway. “I’m in the process of acquiring an agent, and after that it’s a matter of time until one of the big studios grabs my script.”

“Good luck with it.” Tree couldn’t think of anything else to say.

They rode in silence along McGregor Boulevard. “Just a matter of time,” Lu said finally.

“But you haven’t got an agent?”

“I’m
getting
an agent. No big deal. An agent. Then it goes to the studios.”

“Well, like I said, good luck.”

“It’s a powerful script,” Lu said. “Action. A dying American martial arts champion. Martial arts is huge in Asia. That’s what’s going to sell this baby. The Chinese are going to eat it up.”

Tree turned to have a look at Clinton. He sat on his haunches, alert, mouth open, giving the distinct impression, Tree thought, that he was not buying a word out of Lu’s mouth.

“I don’t like dogs,” Lu said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tree said.

“A dog bit me when I was a kid. Ever since then, me and dogs, hey, we just don’t see eye to eye, know what I mean?”

“Clinton won’t bite you,” Tree reassured.

“Yeah, but he’s getting hair all over the seat. I’m gonna have a time cleaning the car.”

“Maybe your script will sell to a studio and you won’t have to clean the car,” Tree said.

“It’s perfect for Mark.”

“Mark?”

“Wahlberg. Mark Wahlberg.” As though everyone should know. “He’s an action guy. It’s perfect for him.”

“You know Mark?”

“The agent knows him.”

“But you don’t have an agent,” Tree said.

Lu frowned and didn’t say anything.

T. Emmett Hawkins occupied a suite of offices in an Art Deco building down the street from the Lee County Courthouse. Lu dropped Clinton and Tree off in front. Tree said to him, “Are you going to drive me back once I’m finished?”

“I’ve got to get the car cleaned,” Lu said.

“What does that mean?”

Lu responded by driving away, leaving Tree and Clinton standing by the curb. Why should Lu care how he and Clinton were getting home? He was about to sell his script to Hollywood. All he needed was an agent. Then it was on to fame and fortune.

Tree went inside to a porcelain lobby with a receptionist who had full lips glistening with bright red lipstick. She said, “You can’t bring that dog in here.”

“Then I’m going to have to leave,” Tree said.

“But Mr. Hawkins is waiting for you,” she said unhappily. “I’ve had to juggle his calendar to fit you in.”

“Then you’re going to have to allow the dog to stay.”

“Dogs aren’t allowed in the building.” The receptionist sounded unhappier now.

“It’s up to you,” Tree said.

She moved her red mouth around as though she had just tasted something unpleasant. Then she picked up the phone. “Hello, Mr. Hawkins. Yes, he’s here. But he’s got a dog with him.” The receptionist fell silent and moved her mouth around some more. “I thought animals weren’t allowed in the building. Yes, I see.”

She hung up the phone and gave Tree a miserable look. “You can go back. Mr. Hawkins is waiting for you.”

Hawkins occupied a large, book-lined room at the end of the hall. The window that interrupted the flow of the bookshelves framed the Lee County Courthouse, allowing Hawkins to contemplate the power of the law—or perhaps devise ways to defeat that power and keep his clients out of the jail behind the courthouse.

There was no desk, only a couple of dark leather sofas matching a pair of leather easy chairs, their backs bordered by brass studs. T. Emmett Hawkins, sleek and round, sporting his usual polka-dot bow tie, rose from one of the chairs, putting aside the papers he was studying. His shiny face broke into a welcoming smile. “There you are, Mr. Callister, so good to see you again.”

He offered Tree a soft white hand.

“It’s been a while, Emmett,” Tree said.

“And who is this amiable-looking, long-eared fellow?” Hawkins bent forward for a closer inspection of Clinton. “Is it all right to pet him?”

Tree agreed that it was, and a soft white hand duly stroked Clinton’s forehead. Clinton accepted the petting with his usual equanimity. “Good dog,” Hawkins said. “Good boy.”

“I don’t think your driver likes dogs,” Tree said.

“Yes, Lu,” Hawkins said, concentrating on patting Clinton’s head. “He’s a character, is he not?”

Hawkins took his hand away and straightened to present Tree with one of his honey-dipped smiles. That voice, the soft smile. M. Emmett Hawkins was all Southern gentleman. Or at least that was the image he liked to present to the world.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Callister? I’m so pleased my assistant was able to find a few moments for you.”