“The son?” Whittaker questioned, trying to put the pieces together.
“He works for his father and recently graduated from the University of St Petersburg. He studied under Griffin, the professor in the same department where Massey’s wife used to teach,” Beth explained. “They’re working on a connection. There’s a study on water quality by the university, paid for by the EPA, that could be a link. Briggs’s paper manufacturing plant is right on the Manatee River estuary which is part of that report. Griffin headed the study, and Grayson was one of the students on the project.”
“Do they have any evidence to suggest wrongdoing?” Whittaker asked.
“Nothing yet,” Beth replied, “beyond Grayson’s presence in Myra Shah’s building. They also have an eyewitness who saw a man fitting his description at Shah’s door.”
Whittaker nodded. “Okay, thank you. If you hear anything more, please interrupt us.”
The detective slid open the side door to the van and faced a very angry Donovan Briggs, seated on a bench inside.
“What the hell is this bullshit, detective?” Briggs bellowed, waving his handcuffed wrists in the air. “Have you any idea how much money I’ve spent on your little pile of sand in the middle of the ocean? Fucking millions! More than you’ll ever make in your lifetime. And this is how I’m treated when my daughter is the victim of a lunatic!”
Whittaker slid the door closed and sat alongside Kowalczyk on the opposite bench.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions that may help us with your daughter’s situation, Mr Briggs,” he said calmly.
“What would help my daughter’s situation is you getting back out there and hunting down this piece of shit whose taken her,” Briggs shouted back. “Do your fucking job instead of holding me on trumped-up charges!”
“We believe your daughter’s abduction has everything to do with you and your family, Mr Briggs, so your cooperation could greatly aid your daughter.”
“I want my goddamned phone call,” Briggs retorted, “and I want it now. I have a right to my lawyer being present.”
“He does have the right to a phone call. And to representation,” Kowalczyk said, playing his good cop role.
“You do indeed have a right to both, within a reasonable time frame,” Whittaker pointed out. “And you can certainly choose to provide us with no information that may help us find your daughter. Or you can help us. It is, of course, your choice to make.”
“I don’t have any damned information to help you, detective. This is a waste of your time and mine.”
“No problem,” Whittaker said, rising to his feet, staying hunched over so he didn’t hit his head on the roof. “I’ll arrange for your phone call once we’ve resolved the emergency situation we’re currently facing. We’ll process you at the station and go through the formal procedures first, and then you can make your call. I’ll leave it up to the FBI in Tampa to see what your son has to say.”
Briggs was about to bluster about the delay in his phone call until the last sentence. “What?”
Whittaker put his hand on the door and looked back. “Your son, Grayson. He’s being arrested under suspicion of murder as we speak.”
“Murder? What the fuck are you talking about?” Briggs barked, but his tone had changed and Whittaker noticed he’d paled from his deep tan.
“The reporter who was about to expose you and your company, Mr Briggs,” Whittaker bluffed. “She was murdered earlier today. By your son, it appears. I’m sure he’ll tell the FBI everything they need to know in exchange for a lighter sentence.” The detective turned to Kowalczyk. “That’s how it works in America, isn’t it?”
Kowalczyk nodded. “Quite often.”
“You’re full of shit,” Briggs said, glaring at the detective. “And I want my call now!”
Whittaker slid the door open. “All in good time, Mr Briggs. I’m sure you’ll agree, I should focus on finding your daughter above all else.”
He stepped from the van and turned to close the door. Briggs was up off the bench with Kowalczyk holding him back with a hand to the chest.
“You motherfucker,” Briggs shouted. “Wait till the Cayman Islands Governor hears how I’ve been treated, he’s a friend of mine. You’ll be handing out parking tickets next week!”
Whittaker slid the door closed with a firm clunk.
“Looks like that went well,” Beth said with a smile.
Whittaker grinned. “Now we’ll see how good your partner is.”
“Hand me your phone,” Briggs said, the moment the door closed.
“I don’t have it with me,” Kowalczyk lied. “He made me leave it out there with my partner.”
Briggs awkwardly slapped the cushioned bench with his restrained hands. “Fuck, come on, man. I’m a US citizen, I have rights. Get me out of this fucking van.”
Kowalczyk held up his hands. “I’ll fight for you, sir, but there’s only so much I can do on foreign soil. It’s their laws here.”
“What’s this bullshit about my son?” Briggs said, lowering his voice. “He’s lying, right?”
The agent shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think he can lie, but I’ve been in here, so I’m not fully up to speed.” He shuffled to the edge of the bench seat and leaned towards Briggs. “You know, if you throw the guy a bone here, I’m guessing he’ll cut you loose. The detective knows you’re not involved in kidnapping your own daughter, he’s just perceptive and figures you’re not telling him everything you do know.”
“I don’t know shit,” Briggs scoffed.
Kowalczyk shook his head. “Come on, Donovan. You know this Massey guy from somewhere. Just tell the detective how you know him and he’ll lighten up. It’s like you said, we need him laser focused on finding Skylar. Everything else is a distraction. Give him something so he feels like you’re being straight with him.”
Briggs blew out a long breath. “I want my fucking lawyer; there’s all kinds of ways that island Barney Fife could twist my words.”
Kowalczyk waved a hand in the air. “I’m here to witness anything you say, Mr Briggs. He can’t twist anything around. In fact, tell me and I’ll relay it to Whittaker. That way, we’re a hundred per cent covered. How do you know this guy, Massey?”
Briggs sat back and looked around the van, considering his predicament. The agent left him brooding for a few moments.
“I don’t know him,” Briggs finally said. “But I know who he is.”
Kowalczyk nodded slowly. “Okay, that’s good. How do you know about him?”
“Grayson, my son, went to the university where Massey’s wife used to teach,” Briggs admitted. “It’s a good school in Tampa. I donate money to the place. Anyway, Massey’s wife was killed in a road accident and the nutcase tried to come up with a crazy conspiracy theory involving me and the school. The guy’s fucking crazy. I mean, I’m sorry his wife was killed, but these things happen. He couldn’t handle it I guess.”
“So Massey approached you after his wife’s accident?” Kowalczyk asked.
“He left messages with my secretary,” Briggs replied. “I never spoke to the man.”
“Did the reporter contact you?”
Briggs tightened and looked away. “What reporter?” he asked, pulling his gaze back to the agent.
“Myra Shah,” Kowalczyk replied. “Worked for the Tampa Bay Gazette.”
“He had some reporter trying to dig up dirt and make a story where there wasn’t one,” Briggs said dismissively. “Could have been her.”
“But you didn’t speak with her?”
Briggs shook his head.
“So what is Skylar’s connection in all this?” Kowalczyk asked.
Briggs frowned. “Nothing, this nutjob has grabbed her to stir up all these old baseless claims of his. She’s just a college kid for fuck’s sake.”
“Who also went to the University of St Petersburg for a brief time,” Kowalczyk pointed out.
Briggs stiffened again. “She didn’t like the scho
ol, she was only there a semester or two. She transferred.”
“You mean she was kicked out and found another school that would take her?”
Briggs sat up and tried to point at the agent, which was cumbersome in handcuffs. “Whose fucking side are you on here? My daughter wasn’t kicked out, she decided to leave. Sure, she’s made a few mistakes like teenagers do, but she wasn’t expelled from the university.”
Whittaker put the digital radio back down on the table. They still hadn’t found any obvious trace of activity along the narrow roadside waterways. He looked up at the sound of the van door closing and watched Kowalczyk walk towards him.
“Any luck?” he asked the agent.
“Claims Massey and Shah tried to contact him but he never took their calls,” Kowalczyk said. “I told him I’d pass on the information and try to get him his phone call.”
“At least he’s finally admitted he knows the guy,” Beth said, “and the reporter.”
“I figured I’d give him a few minutes to think things over and I’ll give it another run,” Kowalczyk said. “I’ll push him on his son’s involvement, but I’ll need to offer up something in return.”
“That’s your call,” Whittaker replied. “Strictly speaking, we’ve arrested him but not processed him yet, so it’s our discretion on the call. If you think he’s given up all he’s going to say, then let him have his call.”
“He’ll clam up as soon as he talks to his lawyer,” Kowalczyk pointed out. “That’s guaranteed.”
“Agreed, but I never planned to process him anyway,” Whittaker admitted. “So once he gives you all you think he will, let him make his call. We’ll keep him tucked away in the van for a while after that while his people scramble around like headless chickens.”
Beth couldn’t hold back a grin.
“He did say one thing that was interesting,” Kowalczyk added. “He claims Skylar wasn’t kicked out of the university. He says she decided to leave.”
“If he paid a bunch of money to smooth things over with the school, I’m sure he’d claim that to be true,” Whittaker replied.
Kowalczyk nodded. “I agree, but he reacted differently when I brought it up. I think I believe him.”
“Makes that timing more interesting, doesn’t it?” Beth said.
“It would be quite the coincidence,” Kowalczyk replied sceptically, “but Skylar has shown no signs of knowing either of the Masseys.”
“Correct,” Whittaker said. “Or she hasn’t recognised Jensen Massey, at least.”
31
Fish in the Boat
Don Brandt and Faith Graham pulled up to the driveway of a large home on Culbreath Isles, an affluent bayside community in Tampa. Brandt parked their SUV, and they stepped from the air conditioning to the sweltering heat of the Florida afternoon. The light breeze off the bay filtering through the buildings did little to stave off the beads of sweat instantly forming on their foreheads.
“Grant wasn’t kidding,” Faith said under her breath and her partner shook his head.
Grant had finally got around to explaining where Professor Griffin lived and had noted the significant upgrade in dwellings just four months prior. The two agents looked at the Spanish villa-styled home on the water and raised their eyebrows.
“My professors weren’t living large like this,” Brandt commented.
They walked across the perfectly landscaped courtyard to a large wooden double door with black, wrought-iron hardware. Faith slipped a quick look at her cell phone and checked for any new messages. Nothing. Tampa police should have been knocking on Grayson Briggs’s door about now, and hopefully arresting him. If the timing worked out as planned, she and her partner would be interviewing their suspect after leaving the professor’s house. Brandt knocked on the heavy door and a dog barked from inside. After a few moments the door opened and a woman peered outside, keeping a golden retriever at bay with her leg.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice sounding as frazzled as she looked.
She was in her fifties, by Faith’s estimation, and would normally be an attractive woman. But her eyes appeared puffy and her cheeks flushed.
“Mrs Griffin?” Brandt asked, and they both produced their badges.
She stared back at them, her lower lip quivering slightly, and Faith wondered if the professor’s wife was about to burst into tears, slam the door, or simply pass out.
“Yes,” she finally managed.
“Is your husband home, ma’am?” Brandt asked.
The woman glanced over her shoulder as though it was questionable if he was still where she’d last seen him. Or was she buying time, wondering whether or not to lie? She turned back to the visitors and let out a long sigh.
“Come in,” she said, taking hold of the dog’s collar as she swung the door open.
They stepped inside and took in the expansive living area and view of the bay through floor-to-ceiling windows.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Mrs Griffin began shakily. “Davis isn’t usually like this, but I’m sure it has something to do with why you’re here.”
“Ma’am?” Faith questioned. “Like what?”
Both agents scanned the interior again, checking for threats. The big screen television was playing loudly in the living area, but they couldn’t see anybody else in the house.
The woman shook her head. “He’s been glued to the TV and I’m afraid he’s been drinking,” she said apologetically. “Honestly, I’m a little afraid, I don’t know what’s going on with him.”
Faith reached out and held the woman’s arm. “It’s okay, ma’am. Please stay here and keep hold of the dog. Where is your husband?”
“He’s in there,” she said, nodding towards the living room.
Brandt slid his jacket back, placing his hand on his firearm as he stepped from the foyer towards the living room. Faith followed after making sure the woman was staying put. Brandt circled to the right, and Faith took the left. Brandt nodded towards the sofa and Faith stopped and carefully took out her firearm. She kept it in the Sul position, within the confines of her body so Mrs Griffin didn’t see it and freak out.
“Sir, we’re with the FBI. We’d like to have a word,” Brandt announced, shouting over the news anchor talking about the Cayman Islands kidnapping.
Faith saw a man’s head appear as he rolled upright on the sofa.
“Figured you’d show up,” the man slurred.
Brandt slid his firearm away and nodded to Faith, indicating he saw no threat.
“Are you Professor Davis Griffin, sir?”
The man laughed. “I hope so or he’ll be pissed I drank all his best Scotch.”
Faith heard a whimper from the doorway and saw Mrs Griffin was in tears. At least she was keeping the dog in check. The golden retriever didn’t appear aggressive, but interviewing someone while being licked to death was always awkward.
“I see you’re following the events in Grand Cayman, Mr Griffin,” Brandt proceeded.
Griffin threw a hand in the air. “Who knew?”
Faith moved around the far side of the sofa near the windows and made sure no one else was around.
Griffin startled when he saw her. “Are you with him?” he spluttered.
“Yes, sir,” Faith replied. “FBI Special Agents Graham and Brandt.”
“FBI, huh?”
“Yes, sir. FBI,” Faith said sternly. “This is a federal case as it’s crossed borders.”
“You know,” Griffin bumbled, picking up a tumbler of Scotch from the coffee table, “when these things start, they’re so harmless, you know?” He held the glass in the air as though it made his point for him, “But then they escapate… I mean escapalate… fuck…”
“Escalate, sir?” Faith threw out, hoping to help the man finish his sentence.
Griffin waved the glass around some more. “That’s it.”
He took a gulp and set the glass down with a thud on the table, spilling some of the amber liquid. His wife
made more sobbing noises. Faith eased over next to Brandt.
“Let me get her and the dog away from here, upstairs maybe,” she whispered. “I think this guy is about to spill his guts.”
“It’s not often the fish leap into the boat before you cast a line,” Brandt replied, “but I think you’re right.”
Faith walked over to the front door. “Mrs Griffin, is there somewhere private you and your lovely dog here could wait while we chat with your husband?”
The woman nodded and led Faith to a room off to the side of the living area. It was a large study with bookcases lining three walls and windows to the bay on the fourth.
“Perfect,” Faith said. “Give us a few minutes and I’ll come and get you when we’re done, ma’am.”
Mrs Griffin nodded and sat down heavily on the chair behind an ornate wooden desk. The dog gave up on greeting the agents and flopped down beside her. Faith closed the door and returned to the living room. Brandt was seated in an overstuffed chair and had found the remote for the TV. He turned the volume down, but left the show on. The talking heads were already repeating the same lines they’d been saying five minutes ago, so Faith guessed nothing new had happened lately.
“So tell me how this situation went so wrong, Mr Griffin,” Brandt asked casually.
The professor swayed on the sofa and eyed the agent suspiciously. Maybe he’d figured out somewhere in his stupor that he hadn’t been slapped in cuffs yet. He swayed a little more and his head dropped as though his neck could no longer take the strain.
“I never should have trusted them,” he mumbled, barely coherent. “By the time I knew, it was too late.”
He picked his head back up and threw both hands in the air dramatically. “If you lie down with the Devil… you know,” he said, rolling a hand in the air as though the rest of the idiom would spin itself onto his tongue, “you’ll wake up in the deep blue sea.”
Faith kept a straight face, but it took some effort.
“And obviously he paid you through…” Brandt started, but deliberately trailed off.
Deadly Sommer: Nora Sommer Caribbean Suspense - Book One Page 18
