by D P Lyle
See? I told you it was a hot spot of activity.
Lauren bounced from her car. “Hey, guys.”
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Amazingly well. Why’re you here?”
“Just talked with Chief Warren.”
“That’s where I’m headed,” Lauren said.
“Anything new?” Nicole asked.
“Lots actually. Interviewed a ton of people yesterday, including the mayor, several shop owners, coffee shop employees, bartenders, even the local vet. Everybody has been so great,”
“Good to hear,” Nicole said.
“Everyone’s shook up,” Lauren said. “I can tell you that for sure. On a bit of an edge with the killer still out there.” She glanced toward the PD’s front door. “A few aren’t thrilled with the pace of the investigation.”
That was common. The populace always expected a resolution in an hour. Including commercials. Like TV. But some situations are infinitely more difficult to unravel. Like now. We had no viable suspects. A few maybes, but they all looked soft to me. Sean had an excellent alibi and I couldn’t picture Charlie Martin standing behind Emily and Jason and pulling the trigger. And the drug world seemed like a stretch. Not impossible by any means, but I saw no clear motive for the Macks or their ilk. What niggled in the back of my brain was that we were missing something that was right in front of us. Something that would shift the winds in the right direction.
“I talked with Charlie Martin,” Lauren continued. “Like you said, he seems fairly benign. Soft spoken, polite. But I did have a couple interesting conversations about him.” She pulled her pad from her purse and flipped through several pages. “A guy named Phil Varney. Works over at Copeland’s Nursery with Charlie. While Charlie and I were talking, this Phil guy was working nearby. Repotting some small plants, that sort of thing. But my impression was that he was more eavesdropping than working. I thought he was simply curious. But after Charlie and I finished, he followed me to my car. Told me a story.”
“About Charlie?” Nicole asked.
She nodded. “One night, a couple of weeks before the murders, a group from work were at a local bar.” She flipped a page. “Danny’s Den. Downtown. Anyway, he and Charlie were drinking and chatting at the bar, and Phil mentioned he had seen Emily and Jason out somewhere the night before. He said Charlie got quiet, then angry. Said he wished someone would just shoot Jason. Get him out of the way.”
“Really?” I asked. “He said that?”
“He did. Phil said he figured it was just blabbering and alcohol. Didn’t think much of it. Until Jason was murdered.”
“He tell Chief Warren this?”
She shook her head. “Thought about it but was afraid to say anything. Afraid Charlie was not the bad guy and he’d be pointing a finger.” She closed her pad, returned it to her purse. “Said that since he worked with Charlie, it might make things uncomfortable.”
“Then why now?” Nicole asked.
“It was eating at him.”
“He chased you into the parking lot to tell you this?” I asked.
She smiled. “He said he talked to me because I looked nice. Someone he could trust.” Her eyes brightened. “That’s what he said.”
“He’s a good judge of people then,” Nicole said.
“Did you believe him?” I asked. “This Phil guy? Didn’t think he might be talking like he had Charlie’s back but maybe had something else going on? Doing the exact opposite of what he said? Making trouble for Charlie?”
“It did cross my mind, but Phil said that a bartender at Danny’s heard the conversation, too.” She retrieved her pad once again. Flipped it open. “Lee Paulson. Because writers have to check and double-check everything, I went by and talked with him. He remembered it the same way.”
“Interesting.”
“You don’t think Charlie did this, do you?”
I shrugged. “Do you?”
She considered that briefly. “What do I know? I’m just a girl with a pen.”
“No, you’re a reporter,” Nicole said. “A writer. You interview people all the time. Probably can tell when they’re being transparent and when they’re hiding something.”
“That’s such a nice thing to say.”
“I imagine it’s true.”
“Since you asked, no, I don’t see him being that kind of person. Despite what he said. Both Phil and Lee said they thought it was simply the alcohol and the hurt talking. Didn’t believe he meant it. And they, at least Phil, knows him well. So, no, I would doubt he’s the one.”
I agreed with her. But this little temper outburst at least showed that Charlie Martin was capable of anger. Enough to execute two people? One being the woman he supposedly loved? Didn’t feel right. But to echo Lauren, what did I know?
“I think we’ll drop by and talk to each of them,” I said.
“Good. I’d love to get your take on them.” She glanced at her watch. “I better get moving.”
After Lauren disappeared through the PD’s front doors, Nicole asked, “What now?”
“Let’s go see Phil.”
CHAPTER 37
“THE LEXUS IS gone,” Pancake said. He rolled past the Macks’ house.
Ray twisted in the passenger seat and looked over his shoulder. Only the white BMW X5 sat in the drive. “Hopefully Reba’s gone and we can talk to Clive alone.”
“You afraid of her?” Pancake chuckled.
“After what Chief Warren said, keeping her at bay might be wise. Sounds like she’d raise the temperature a couple of notches. I’d rather have a nice, calm chat with Clive.”
“Divide and conquer is never a bad strategy.”
Pancake flipped a U-turn where a gravel road spurred off to the right. “How do you want to play it?”
“Cool. Knock on the door. Be polite. Ask for his help.”
“You don’t want to kick a door down?”
“No.”
“I never get to have fun,” Pancake said.
“The day is young.”
Clive Mack answered their knock. Barefoot, he wore baggy, well-worn jeans and a lime-green Flora-Bama tee shirt. The Flora-Bama was a bar, restaurant, music venue, and all-around purveyor of nightly chaos on the beach. Technically in Florida, but nudged, literally, right up against the Alabama line. Just a few miles on down the road from Jake’s place.
Pancake introduced Ray and himself, finishing by complimenting Clive on his shirt. “Love that place.”
“You know it?” Clive asked.
“We’re from Gulf Shores. Know it all too well.”
“What can I do for you?” Clive asked. His gaze scanned the world beyond Ray and Pancake as if he expected a posse or something. His paranoia evident.
“We’re private investigators,” Pancake said. “Looking into the murders of Emily Patterson and Jason Collins.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Nothing. We need your help though. And would appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
Clive hesitated. A veil of confusion descended over his face. “Help? With what?”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Ray said. “We can explain what we need.”
Another hesitation, followed by a quick nod.
Once settled in the living room, Ray and Pancake on a sofa, Clive in a chair, Ray said, “Clive, we know a good deal about you.”
Clive sat up, back erect. “What’s that mean?”
“We don’t care what you do for a living,” Pancake said. “But we know.”
Clive started to stand, obviously preparing to ask them to leave, but Pancake waved him back into his chair.
“Relax. We aren’t here to mess with your life. Not in any way. But your unique position might prove helpful.”
The lines of confusion on Clive’s face deepened.
“We’re pretty much at a dead end with these murders,” Ray said. “Chief Warren is, too. We’re looking into a possible drug connection. Maybe an owed debt, somethin
g like that.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Clive said.
“I believe you,” Pancake said. The lie rolled out easily. “But we know that you and your wife are plugged into that world and know what goes on around here.”
“I’m afraid you’re misinformed.”
“Look, Clive,” Ray said. “Let’s not play that game. We’re investigators. We know. A lot. That’s what we do. Find out stuff.” He opened his palms. “Once again, we aren’t here to mess up your gig. We could care less. All we want to know is if you knew Jason Collins or Emily Patterson?”
Clive hesitated, as if considering how to handle this. He finally decided. “I’m not sure I want to talk about this.”
Ray scooted forward on the sofa. “Clive, here are your options. We can sit here and have a nice chat. Like gentlemen. Or we can dig so deeply into your life you’ll bleed. Excavate your supply lines and your dealers. Shine a spotlight on your entire operation. Maybe turn over everything we find to Chief Warren.” Ray opened his palms. “Your call.”
Clive’s eyes narrowed. Pancake could feel Clive’s internal pressure rise, then recede. His shoulders slackened. Obviously deciding that the best route was to have a casual chat.
“Emily sure. Sean not well but I know him. Reba actually went to school with Emily. She was a couple of years behind. But now? We only see them in passing from time to time.”
“And Jason Collins?”
“Know who he is but that’s about it.”
“None of them were customers?”
“No. That’s a fact.”
“What about Jack Reed and Reavis Whitt?” Pancake asked. “Think they might’ve dealt with them?”
Pancake could almost hear Clive’s wheels turning. Trying to sort out exactly how much they knew about his and Reba’s business. He almost squirmed in his chair. He tightened one fist and released it, working his fingers as if they ached.
“No. They don’t.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. “I’d know.”
“I think you would.” Pancake offered a friendly smile.
“Do you know anyone else around here who might have sold Jason something?” Ray asked.
“Like what?”
“Let’s say, for the sake of argument, meth. You aware of anyone else who peddles that around here?”
“Else?”
Pancake and Ray stared at him. Said nothing.
“Okay. Yeah, there are a couple of guys from Mobile that drop in here every now and then. I know they push meth and Oxy. Occasionally fentanyl.”
“How do you feel about that? Them coming into your backyard?”
“I don’t think on it much. They don’t do a lot of business here.”
“But business is business,” Pancake said. “You aren’t worried about them getting a foot in the door?”
Clive sighed. “Maybe a little.”
“Maybe we can help you there,” Ray said.
“Help me? I don’t see how.”
“We could have a chat with them. Maybe shake them up a little.”
“I don’t think these are the kind of guys you can rattle.” Clive looked from Ray to Pancake. “Rumor is they’re connected to the cartel out of Juarez.”
Pancake smiled. “We like to shake the tree every now and then. No matter how big it is.”
“Who are these guys?” Ray asked.
Clive said nothing. Obviously deciding how far to go. What to reveal. Probably thinking maybe he’d already said too much.
“It can only help you,” Ray said.
“I honestly don’t see how,” Clive said.
“We dig into their lives. Make them uncomfortable. Maybe make them see the wisdom of not dealing in Fairhope. Maybe even connect them to a double murder and remove them from the board completely.”
“There’s really no downside for you,” Pancake added.
Clive mulled things a beat. “White guy and a Mexican guy. Alex Talley and Santiago Cortez. They call him Sandman.”
Pancake heard a car pull into the drive, a car door slam.
“We’ll pay them a visit,” Ray said.
“I don’t know where they live. Or hang out. Really nothing much about them.”
“We’ll track them down,” Pancake said.
The door swung open. Reba came in. Jeans, black AC/DC tee shirt, metal coffee mug in one hand, plastic grocery bag in the other.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Pancake stood. “Hello, Mrs. Mack. This is Ray and I’m Pancake.”
A flash of confusion over Pancake’s name, then she said, “And who are you?”
Reba wore hostility like a warm blanket. Seemed to be comfortable with it. Like it was her natural state.
“We’re investigators,” Ray said, standing. “Looking into the recent murders.”
Her face darkened, eyes sparking. She placed the grocery bag on the floor. She looked at Clive. “Are you insane? Letting a couple of P.I.s in our home?” She turned on Ray. “Get out.”
“Sorry we upset you,” Pancake said. “We were just leaving.”
She walked to the door and yanked it open. “Then get the hell out of my house.”
They did. As the door slammed, they heard her say, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Once back in the truck, Pancake studied the house. “I’d say old Clive is in a world of swirl.”
“I almost feel sorry for him,” Ray said.
Pancake grunted. “Almost.”
CHAPTER 38
JACK REED AND Reavis Whitt sat across from each other at the small dining table in their apartment. A metal tray mounded with rich, green, aromatic marijuana buds and a gallon zip-lock bag of crystalline meth sat between them. They busied themselves with packing the buds and powder into smaller plastic bags. Getting ready to hit the streets. Lay off their product and rake in the cash.
“I hate doing this shit,” Whitt said. “It’s tedious.”
“But necessary.”
“This’ll help.” Whitt snatched up a half-smoked joint from the nearby ashtray and fired it up. He took a couple of hits and passed it to Reed. Reed took a hit, dropped the remnant back into the ashtray.
“This even more so.” Reed tugged open the meth bag, and with a small spoon lifted a dose to his nose. He snorted it, leaned back, waited for the rush. “Oh yeah.”
Whitt took the spoon and followed suit. “Let’s get this done.”
An hour later they were nearing the finish line. A pile of small plastic bags now filled a large metal bowl.
Reed’s phone sounded, vibrated on the table to his right. The caller ID read, “Macks.” He punched the speaker button, asked, “What’s up?”
“That’s what I want to know.”
Reba. Angry. Her voice carried heat.
Reed looked at Whitt, who now sat up straight.
“Is there a problem?” Reed asked.
“Is there?”
“Not on our end.”
“Let me ask you,” Reba said. “Did you sell anything to either Emily Patterson or Jason Collins?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. We barely know them. We don’t sell to people we don’t know.”
“You better not be fucking with me.”
“Reba, what’s this about?”
“A couple P.I. types came by. Asking questions about them.”
Whitt’s eyes widened. He mouthed “What the fuck?” to Reed.
“What do you mean, P.I. types?” Reed asked.
Reba huffed out a breath. “A couple of guys. Looking into their murders.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“That’s what I’m asking. Have you two done anything that would bring this kind of shit down on us?”
“Of course not. We sell. We don’t kill people.”
Reba said nothing for a few seconds. The silence heavy and painful. “If they talk to you, don’t say anything.
Play dumb.”
“Why would they talk to us?”
“Because they know about you,” Reba said. “Rattled your names right off.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus ain’t going to help you here. Keeping your fucking mouth shut will. If they ask, you don’t work for us. You don’t deal. Got it?”
“But don’t they already know that ain’t the truth?” Reed asked.
“They suspect it. Can’t really know it. Might be on a fishing expedition. So, don’t tell them shit.”
“Why would we say anything?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. Don’t. We don’t need to give them any reason to sniff around.”
“Look, Reba, we’re cool. We don’t know anything about any murders. I swear.”
“You better hope for your sake you’re telling the truth.” She disconnected the call.
Whitt massaged his temples. “We are so fucked.”
“No, we’re not.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Nothing,” Reed said.
“Nothing?”
“Okay, maybe have a chat.”
“You think that’ll work?” Whitt asked.
Reed balled one fist. “If it does, it does. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t.”
“It’s the doesn’t we better worry about.”
CHAPTER 39
THE TRICK WAS to chat with Phil Varney without alerting Charlie Martin. Phil had waited until Lauren left, followed her into the parking lot, talked with her privately. Meant he didn’t want Charlie knowing what was going down. That Phil was talking out of school. Maybe didn’t want to strain their relationship. Or be seen as a snitch of sorts. Or did he consider Charlie dangerous? That he might retaliate in some way? Did he think Charlie was involved in the murders? I still didn’t see that, but Phil knew him, worked with him every day. Regardless, a pinch of discretion here would be best.
Copeland’s Nursery was a big place, but not enormous by any stretch. We couldn’t simply stroll in and corner Phil without Charlie knowing. Maybe we could, but the risk would be considerable.
