I stuck my badge out. Scanning the table, I saw hooks, metal fish, and colored strings. “You making lures?”
“Yeah, you fish?”
“No, but my dad used to go out every now and then.”
“You should get into it; it’s very relaxing.”
“Maybe I will. We wanted to ask you about Joseph Chapman.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You know what happened to Chapman?”
He nodded.
Vargas said, “When was the last time you saw him?”
Lenin’s eyes moved from her face to mine. “I had nothing to do with that. Me and Joe were friends.”
“She’s not saying you did. Her question was about the last time you saw him.”
He hesitated. “A couple of days ago.”
Lenin had a record but had stayed out of trouble or hadn’t been caught over the last two years. I said, “If you had nothing to do with his death, you don’t have to worry. We’re looking for information to solve his murder. Anything you tell us won’t go anywhere.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Vargas said, “You two were friends. What was Chapman up to that could have gotten him killed?”
Lenin picked up a hook and was gently tapping a thumb on the sharp end of it.
“You’ve got nothing to fear. Detective Luca already told you any information you provide will stay with us.”
“Joey was Joey. he didn’t say much. We didn’t see each other too much anymore. We were out of touch.”
I made like I was looking at the array of fishing gear and sneaked a look in the window. There were four rows of boxes, stacked three high, emblazoned with the Tide logo. I wouldn’t need any sodium thiopental to crack this criminal clam open.
“Cut the crap, we don’t have time. You don’t start talking, I’m gonna get a subpoena and turn your place upside down.”
Vargas’s eyes widened, and I said, “Either this guy has a fetish about washing his clothes, or we found some of the stuff from the trailer that was hijacked out of Walmart’s distribution center.”
“It wasn’t me. I swear.”
Oh, if he’s swearing, it’s got to be true. “Look, I told you up front, I’m not looking to bust you. I want information. You talk, and I chalk you up as a clean-clothes nut.”
Vargas said, “Tell us what you know.”
Lenin clamped his eyes shut for a second and then spewed. “He came to me about a couple of jobs he wanted to pull. I told him I don’t do anything like that anymore. I mean it, I don’t. I steer clear of that. I ain’t going back in.”
“Jobs? He was planning robberies?”
He nodded.
“You know if he did them?”
He nodded. “It was in the papers. He robbed the 7-Eleven off Golden Gate. At least I think it was him.”
We’d have to check the CCTV video. “He wanted you to do the 7-Eleven with him?”
“Yeah, that one, and a gas station convenience store on Airport.”
“The Chevron station?”
“Yeah, that’s the one he said.”
Lenin didn’t give us anything else, but as far as I was concerned it was enough. Plus, if we could tie Chapman to the robberies with the video feeds, we’d solve two crimes. Chapman was a cretin, and I didn’t want to waste any more time tracking down his killer, who probably settled a dispute with a gun. I’d have to find a way to let this case fade away.
Chapter 4
The western side of the sky was charcoal gray and the morning air cool as we crossed the police line on Vanderbilt Drive. I scanned the area from the southern tip of the Cocohatchee River Park to Island Marina. The water was moving westward to the Gulf of Mexico.
A jet ski laden with two onlookers came into view. It slowed to an idle as it approached. How did people find out so soon?
Vargas asked the responding officer, “Who found the body?”
“Guy was going fishing and saw him floating over there.” He pointed toward a small alcove. “Took his boat over to see what was going on and called it in.”
“He touch anything?”
“He prodded him with the back of his gaffe to see if there was any movement. Then he dragged the body into the mouth of the marina.”
We bounced down an aluminum gangway onto the Trex docking toward the strobe lights. A photographer was documenting the scene, and it was a tough crime scene. There were an endless number of places the body could have entered the water. Was it off a boat deep in the bay and the current carried it, or was it dumped off land?
A small tropical depression had passed through yesterday, bringing heavy rain and unfavorable marine conditions. How long was the body in the water? There were a lot of questions needing answers.
Bobbing gently, the body was pressed against the bow of a police boat. Bracing myself with a piling, I leaned toward the body. Faceup, it was a male in his thirties dressed in jeans and a black shirt. There were at least two gunshot wounds, one in his right chest and another in the gut.
There was limited bloating and no deterioration. It was likely the body was in the water well under a day. Pocketing the first answer, I ordered the police boat to fish the corpse out and turned to Vargas.
“Let’s see if he’s carrying any ID.”
“You think he was killed elsewhere and dumped?”
“That’d depend on who he is. If he owns a boat or goes fishing, he could’ve been shot on the water, where there’s a helluva lot less witnesses.”
“Chapman also took two shots to the chest.”
“Tough to forget that one, even if he deserved it.”
Vargas glared at me and turned away.
“Hold on, Mary Ann, I’m just kidding.” I wasn’t, but we had a date tomorrow, and I might need her cabana to live in.
***
Water laced with seaweed draped off the body as it was lifted out of the bay. I made a note that the corpse was dropped onto the tarp-covered dock, too heavily for my taste. The body’s feet were bare. Was that a sign he’d been on a boat? Or was he wearing flip-flops when he met his maker?
Pulling on gloves, I bent over the body. There were only two wounds I could see.
“Vargas, let’s put him on his side.”
I lifted his upper torso as Vargas twisted his hips. There looked to be at least one exit wound. Vargas dug into the back pockets, fishing out a wallet and phone. We eased the body back, instructing the officers it was okay to wrap the body for transport to the coroner.
The cheap wallet frayed as Vargas opened it.
“Be careful. Just see if there’s a license and leave the rest for the lab.”
Vargas slid out a laminated license, examined it quickly, and handed it to me as she bagged the wallet.
Checking the picture against the corpse, it was clearly a match. His name was Brett Tinder, and he lived on Radio Road. I took a picture of the license and dropped it in the bag with the wallet.
***
As soon as I got to our office, Vargas said, “Tinder’s got a rap sheet.”
“What offenses?”
“He’s no Chapman, but two burglaries and a pair of domestic violences.”
“He’s married?”
“Don’t think so, but he’s got a temper. The complaints were from different women.”
“Frigging coward. Maybe it was a girlfriend who got sick of being abused by the piece of shit.”
“You know that’s not likely, Frank.”
“I know. Still, we’ll need to talk with them.”
“You want to start with them or his mother?”
“Has she been notified?”
“Yeah, Alvarez went.”
“Good, let’s start with whoever's closer.”
“The mother lives in Leigh Acres—both women in East Naples.”
“East Naples, here we come.”
“Okay. I also sent a car out to his neighbo
rhood—see what they come up with contact wise.”
“Good move. let’s get going.”
As Vargas holstered her gun she said, “I asked the lab to run ballistics on the bullets used on Chapman and Tinder. It’s an outside shot they’re connected, but we got two bodies in just under two weeks.”
She was good. As a nonbeliever in conspiracies, I didn’t see the connection, but it was the right move. If we had a serial killer on our hands who was wiping out thugs, I was of the opinion we either drag our feet or add them to the force.
Chapter 5
I couldn’t even put a value on a place like the one Tinder’s girlfriend lived in. The cinder-block home was missing roof tiles, and a piece of graying plywood covered a window. The front yard of Jean Baron’s home was littered with plastic furniture and bicycles in various states of disrepair. I rang the bell with my car key.
Jean Baron had a drinker’s nose and was still in a housecoat, though it was near noon. Her eyes were red. Either she’d been nipping a bottle, or she knew about Tinder. I could hear one of those stupid courtroom shows playing on a TV.
Vargas said, “Jean Baron?”
Baron nodded slowly.
“We’re detectives Vargas and Luca from the sheriff’s department.”
“You’re here about Brett, right?”
Vargas nodded. “You know what happened to him?”
She nodded. “His mother called me.”
“May we come in?”
Baron moved to the side, and we stepped into a small family room with a flat-screen TV so big it overpowered the room. The place smelled of fried chicken.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No thanks. We’d like to ask you some questions about Mr. Tinder to get some background as to how this could have happened.”
“It was inevitable.”
I asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean Brett had some good parts of him. He was good with my kids, and he didn’t have to be. He treated them like his own. It was the only reason I stuck with him.”
“How long were you with him?”
“Off and on about six years.”
“Why’d you leave him?”
“Come on, you know damn well. I filed against him. He beat the hell out of me in front of the kids.”
“Was that the first time he laid a hand on you?”
She shook her head. “Like I said, I hung around for the kids.”
I said, “You said his mother called you. Are the two of you close?”
“Emily’s a saint. She ain’t got nobody but Brett, and he was always in trouble. I felt for her.”
“What did Mr. Tinder do for a living?”
She snorted. “You mean besides stealing and dealing?”
I stole a glance at Vargas before asking, “He dealt drugs?”
“Nothing big, but I caught him with a big bag of pills one day. That’s the first time I threw him out. He begged to come back, and like a fool I took him in. But he kept his word on that at least, because I never saw any drugs, and believe me, with two kids, I looked.”
I asked, “Did he know someone named Joe Chapman?”
“Chapman? No, I don’t think so.”
Vargas handed her a photo of Chapman.
“I ain’t never seen this guy before.”
Vargas took back the picture and asked, “You said Mr. Tinder was always in trouble. what do you mean by that?”
“Really? You guys arrested him and sent him to prison, didn’t you?”
“Detective Vargas was looking for information unrelated to his record. Things he may have gotten away with.”
“Brett was a thief, inside and out. He would steal something almost everywhere we went, like it was a game.”
“Did he have anyone you’d consider an enemy?”
“He’d get into fights, come home all bruised up. But it’s been a good two years since we’ve been together, and I don’t know what he was up to.”
“Can you think of anyone we should be talking to? Any friends that could help in trying to catch who did this?”
Baron gave us the names of three guys Tinder ran around with while she was with him, and we left.
On the way to the car, I said, “Well, doesn’t seem Chapman and Tinder knew each other.”
“Maybe, but it’s two years since they lived together.”
***
Two of the names Baron gave us were a total waste of time. It’s not like we expected them to talk like women in a hair salon, but the thugs were guarded, afraid they’d reveal something about their own criminal behavior.
We figured we’d have an easier time with the last guy, Joey Horchow, as he was sitting in the Stockade Road Jail in Immokalee. Boy, it sure seemed like everything was in or off Immokalee. We’d stop and have a chat with Horchow before going over to his dead buddy’s apartment.
The Stockade Jail was a three-story, white cement building, encircled with ten-foot-high fencing, topped with razor wire. I’d been here so many times we didn’t have to show our credentials to get through the gate.
Horchow was wearing a bored look and an orange jumpsuit. Comparing the mental image of his mug shot, something about him looked different. He’d been inside for just over three months as he awaited trial on a string of burglaries.
“This is detective Vargas, and I’m Detective Luca. We’re from homicide.”
Horchow stiffened. “Homicide? I ain’t got nothing to do with no murders.”
“We’re here to ask you about your buddy Brett Tinder.”
“Oh. What about him?”
“He was murdered. Shot in the chest and dumped into the bay by Wiggins Pass.”
“I heard.”
“How’d you hear that?”
“Come on, man, you don’t know nothing about jails? Anything on the outside gets in, just like water finds its way.”
Water? Was that a signal?
“Hey, you got a smoke?”
“Smoking is not allowed.”
“I’ll take one back with me if you got one.”
“What can you tell us about Tinder?”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
Vargas said, “Mr. Horchow, it’s likely you’ll be convicted and receive a sentence of ten to fourteen years—”
“If he’s lucky.”
She said, “Either way, you’ll be going away for a long time. If you cooperate with us, we’ll tell the prosecutor how helpful you’ve been. I can’t promise anything more than that, but you’re going to need all the help you can get if you expect to see daylight before your fiftieth birthday.”
“What kinda stuff you want?”
I said, “Anything you know that could help our investigation into who killed him.”
Vargas said, “You mentioned that information from outside seeps in here. What did you hear about his murder?”
“Not much, just that he was shot and was floating in the Cocohatchee.”
“Who did it?”
He shook his head. “I donno. If I did, I’d be trading it to get outta here.”
“Who had reason to do away with him? Anybody he had a beef with?”
“Brett was like two different people, you know. One day he would be going along, and next day, he was like, no way I’m doing that.”
“Look, Joey, I like a riddle as much as the next guy, but what do you mean by that?”
“I gotta be careful. I say something and you gonna use it against me.”
I said, “Unless you’re talking about a homicide, nothing you say is going anywhere. Don’t worry.”
Vargas added, “And if it is a homicide, and you have information about it, we’re prepared to negotiate an offer for the information.”
“Man, I wish I had it, but Tinder was a thief, a fucking good one, but nothing more.”
“So, what were you saying before about him being a chameleon?”
&nb
sp; “Most of the jobs we worked, we did as teams. It makes it a lot safer.”
Yeah, so safe you’re sitting here looking at ten-plus years in the slammer. “Go on.”
“What would piss guys off was we’d plan a job, and Brett would be all in one day, and then just before we’d do it, he’d pull out. He did it more than once, and it made guys mad, real mad.”
“Mad enough to kill him?”
He shrugged.
“Anybody come to mind?”
“I donno.”
“Come on, Joey.”
“You really gonna talk with the judge and all?”
Vargas said, “Absolutely. We help each other here, and we both win.”
“You sure?”
I said, “You have our word, Joey. Now, tell us, who do you think had it in for Tinder.”
“Chenko. He never liked Brett, always bad-mouthed him. They had a big-assed fight one night, and Chenko pulled a knife on him. I swear, he would’ve sliced him to pieces if we didn’t stop it.”
“Where was this fight?”
“At the body shop we hung out at on Taylor.”
“Where does this Chenko live, and does he have a first name?”
“Alex. He’s out of Leigh Acres.”
“Any idea why Tinder would be flip-flopping all the time?”
“Brett was a good guy, deep down. He liked kids—”
“And to beat his girlfriends up.”
“He felt bad, really bad about it, but he had anger issues. He tried to control himself, even started going to church.”
“Guess it didn’t work.”
“I donno. since he was going to church, he didn’t explode so much.”
“How long did you know Joey Chapman?”
“Who?”
I offered a picture to him. “Joey Chapman.”
He shook his head. “No idea who this is.”
“Was Tinder gay?”
“You mean like a homo?”
“Yes.”
“Nah, he was straight, man.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-huh.”
Vargas said, “Maybe your buddy was conflicted and had anger because he was confused about who he was. Does that make sense to you?”
“So, you saying he flipped out and beat his women because he was a queer?”
Third Chances Page 2
