by D P Lyle
We got lucky though.
Nicole pulled into the lot of a patio furniture store across the street and parked aimed at Copeland’s. “What do you think?” she asked.
“You distract Charlie and I’ll chat with Phil.”
“Or you can do the distracting.”
“Somehow I think you’d be better at holding Charlie’s attention than me.”
“I feel like I’m being pimped out,” she said.
“You are.”
“That’s me. A full-service chick.”
“And you do it all so well.”
“You’re so romantic.”
“I am,” I said. “Now, let’s get this done.”
I popped open the passenger’s door.
“Wait,” Nicole said. She pointed. “We might’ve just caught a break.”
A Copeland’s truck slid by the side of the building, stopped at the street, then turned and disappeared up the road. Charlie Martin behind the wheel.
The same young lady we had seen a few days earlier was behind the counter. She yet again directed us “out back,” this time saying that Phil Varney was tagging a new shipment of azaleas. We found him doing exactly that. Toward the rear of the shaded area, stooped over, clipping small yellow price tags on an assortment of healthy-looking red, pink, and white azaleas.
“Phil?” I said.
He straightened and turned. Tall and lanky. Shaggy brown hair that hung over his ears. Tennis shoes, shorts, and a wine-colored Copeland’s Nursery golf shirt.
“Yes.”
I introduced Nicole and me, told him who we were, and what we were doing, then said, “Mind if we ask a couple of questions?”
“About what?”
“Charlie Martin.”
He looked past us, scanned the area. His shoulders seemed to drop as if he were trying to get smaller.
“He’s not here,” Nicole said. “Out on a delivery.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“We aren’t trying to make trouble,” I said.
He looked around again.
“We’ve already talked to Charlie,” Nicole said. “A few days ago.”
“And we think this is mostly a dead end,” I added. “But we need to look into everything.”
He sighed. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Lauren Schultz told us what you said. About Charlie getting angry and saying some things about Jason Collins.”
“I told her that in confidence.”
“Don’t be angry with her,” Nicole said. “We can be persuasive.” She smiled. “Besides, she’s doing a human-interest story. We’re trying to investigate a double murder.”
“Isn’t that Chief Warren’s job?”
“It is,” I said. “We’re actually helping her gather information.”
“I see.”
“Just tell us what happened, that night at the bar, and we’ll be gone,” Nicole said.
He did and it was just as Lauren had said. He and Charlie were having a few beers. Charlie was feeling no pain. Phil happened to mention he had seen Emily and Jason at a restaurant the night before. Charlie became morose—that’s the word he used. Then angry. Didn’t understand why Emily saw more in Jason than she did in him. And indeed, he had said that he wished “someone would shoot him.” He concluded with, “Sounds bad, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Or he was simply frustrated with the situation and needed to blow off steam. “
Phil nodded. “That’s what it seemed like to me. I actually thought little of it. Until … until those murders happened.”
“You never went to the police with this. Right?”
He shook his head. “I still didn’t think it was much. Even afterwards. I just couldn’t see Charlie being involved in any way. Still don’t, for that matter.”
“But you told Lauren.”
He looked at his shoes, talked to them. “It kept nagging at me. What he had said. Woke me up a couple of times.” He looked up. “Thought about going to the police, but then time had passed, and I thought—not sure what I thought. Like maybe they wouldn’t believe me now.” His gaze fell back toward his feet. “Or that me opening my mouth might get Charlie into some unwarranted trouble.”
“Why Lauren?” Nicole asked. “Why did you open up to her?”
“I don’t know. She seemed nice. I overheard her talking with Charlie. She seemed very sympathetic. Kind. I figured if I was ever going to tell the story that I better do it and quit hemming and hawing.” He shrugged. “So I did.”
“Let me ask you a couple of things,” I said. “And feel free not to answer.” That drew his attention back to me. “Do you know if Charlie uses any drugs? Even just marijuana? Anything?”
“Does beer and the occasional whiskey count?”
I smiled. “No. Those are fine.”
“Then no. I think if he did, I’d know about it.”
“You guys are good friends?” Nicole asked.
“Some. Not all that close. But we work together, end up in bars a couple of times a week. I think it would’ve come up.”
“The other thing,” I said. “Do you see any way Charlie could’ve been involved in these murders?”
“That’s an easy one. No way. He’s really a quiet, passive guy. That little angry outburst was out of character and I don’t think it means squat.”
“For what it’s worth, we agree,” Nicole said.
“Good.” He glanced toward a woman, across the way, smiled, raised a finger, and mouthed, “Be right there.” He looked back at me. “I better get back to work.”
“Thanks for talking with us,” Nicole said.
He nodded. Started to leave, hesitated. “I just don’t want to be the one that gets Charlie in any trouble.” He sighed. “If he is.”
“Right now, we don’t think he’s the guy we’re looking for,” I said.
“And he’ll never know we chatted,” Nicole added.
“I’d appreciate that.”
“One more thing,” I said. “Lauren said a bartender overheard the conversation between you and Charlie.”
He nodded. “Lee. Over at Danny’s Den.” Another sigh. “You going to talk with him?”
I nodded.
“His take might be little different than mine.”
“Really?”
Another hesitation. “I’ll let him tell you what he thinks.”
CHAPTER 40
I BELIEVED PHIL Varney and, from the way he characterized it, agreed with his assessment of the conversation he had had with Charlie Martin. But, as Varney had eluded to, did bartender Lee Paulson have a different take on it? As an outsider, one who apparently eavesdropped on the conversation, did he hear it differently? Sense anything darker?
Danny’s Den. A rustic-looking gray wooden structure, patterned after a rural cabin. A gallery extended the entire width of the building, shading two benches and four rocking chairs, offering a place where folks could wait outside for their tables.
My heart rate kicked up a notch as we walked from the parking lot toward the front door. For some reason, I found myself apprehensive about what we might uncover here. I was rooting for Charlie. I liked him. I didn’t want to dig up anything that made me feel otherwise. Even more disturbing was the realization that this P.I. crap could be addicting. The chase. The anticipation. The unknown. It was like taking the mound for the first pitch of an away game.
I loved that, fingering the ball, locating the correct seam, staring down the first batter, but I hated this. Really, I did. Mainly because it meant Ray was right. Not that he wasn’t often on point, but, as with any arm-wrestling match, I detested losing. Especially to Ray.
It was just after 11:00 a.m. Too early for the bulk of the lunch crowd. Which might give us a brief window to chat with Lee the bartender more privately. If he was here today.
The bar only hosted two patrons, a couple, far end, glasses of white wine before them. The bartender was a short, stocky guy, muscular ar
ms, brightly colored sleeve-tattooing on the left, buzz-cut hair. His navy-blue tee shirt seemed a couple of sizes too small but showed off his devotion to the gym.
We took seats at the near end of the bar, as far away from the couple as possible.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. He swiped the polished-wood bar top before us with a towel.
“We’re looking for Lee Paulson,” I said.
“You found him.”
I introduced Nicole and me. He glanced at me, but eyed Nicole with more interest. A lot more interest. His chest expanded and he smiled. She smiled back.
Work it, girl.
“Can we ask a couple of questions?” Nicole said.
“About what?”
“A conversation that occurred here a few weeks ago.”
He laughed. “Really? How would I remember that? I hear a thousand conversations a day.”
“I’m sure you do,” Nicole said. “This one was between Charlie Martin and Phil Varney.”
His smile collapsed. “I see.” He looked back toward me. “Who are you guys?”
“Private investigators,” I said. “We’re looking into the recent murders.”
“Seems like everybody is all of a sudden. Even had a reporter in here last night.”
“Lauren Schultz,” Nicole said. “We know her.”
“Figures. That why you’re here?”
“We’ve already talked with Charlie. Not about this, but we’ve talked to him. We also chatted with Phil just a little while ago. We wanted to get your take on the conversation.”
“More or less what Phil told you, I suspect.”
“He seemed to think you might feel differently about it. That maybe you heard more in it than he did.”
He glanced down the bar. The woman waved a hand. “Just a sec,” he said and headed that way.
After he refilled the couple’s wine glasses, he returned. He braced his arms on the bar, leaning forward. His muscles flexed. “Like I told that reporter, I believe Charlie was simply running his yap. Most people in here do. Talk a lot of nonsense.” He smiled. “Alcohol will do that.”
“But you sensed something else, didn’t you?” Nicole asked.
“I don’t know Charlie all that well. Phil, either for that matter. Sort of over-the-bar acquaintances. They drop in from time to time. We chat. Small talk. Weather, that sort of thing. So any thoughts I might have on the subject probably aren’t worth much.”
“I disagree,” I said. “I own a bar. Down in Gulf Shores. All my bartenders are amateur psychiatrists.”
He nodded his agreement. “That’s probably true.”
“The point is, you meet people all day long. Talk with them. Listen to their stories. Their life victories and their tales of woe. You know people. I think your take is relevant.”
“Maybe I should hang out a shingle,” he said.
“You’d be better than most real shrinks,” Nicole said.
The fingers of his right hand drummed the bar top. “I know Charlie had a thing for Emily and that she seemed to like Jason better.”
“Did you know Emily and Jason?” I asked.
“Sure. They came in together from time to time.”
“What about Emily and Charlie? They come in, too?”
“This is a small town. Everybody comes in here sooner or later.”
“So, that’s a yes?” I asked. “They came in as a couple, so to speak?”
“A time or two.”
“Was Emily different around them?” Nicole asked. “Maybe favored one over the other?”
He nodded. “I think so. She and Jason seemed more of a couple. Her and Charlie?” A one-shoulder shrug. “I didn’t see the sparks. At least not from her. But I could be wrong.”
“From what we’ve heard, your take is correct.”
“I do know Charlie wasn’t happy about her and Jason. That was clear. He’d mentioned it before. Nothing big. More or less in passing. Making conversation. But, that night, when Phil mentioned seeing them out together, Charlie seemed to … not sure how to put it. Maybe went inside himself. Got quiet for a while. Phil apologized for even bringing it up. That’s when Charlie said he wished someone would shoot Jason.”
Another couple settled a few seats down. Lee excused himself and moved down that way. He took their order, mixed their drinks, two Bloody Marys, and then returned.
“Look,” he said, “I probably over-read the entire thing. Like I said, I don’t know Charlie all that well, but what I do know is that he seems like a decent guy. Truth be told, folks talk all kinds of shit over a bar.” He looked at me. “You own a bar. I’m sure you’ve seen it a million times.”
I had. And, more often than not, I, too, blew it off as drunk talk. Was that all this was? A morose Charlie yapping about things he couldn’t control? Probably. Maybe.
CHAPTER 41
PANCAKE POINTED HIS truck north, past Daphne, toward I-10 and Mobile. Ray made a call. His phone on speaker. Took him less than a minute to get Special Agent in Charge Bruce Markham on the line. Markham was the director of the DEA’s New Orleans Division office. His domain reached from Louisiana to Arkansas and included Alabama.
Pancake merged onto the interstate while Ray explained the situation, adding that his partner Tommy Jeffers was listening in. He made the over-the-phone introductions. Pancake knew of Markham but had never met him. He knew that Ray had known him for over two decades. Back to their military days.
“You say this is a murder investigation?” Markham asked.
“A bad one,” Ray said. “Two young folks. Execution style.”
“In Fairhope? That’s a pretty quiet neighborhood.”
“It is. But not for this couple.” Ray explained his history with Emily Rhodes/Patterson.
“That’s tough,” Markham said. “What can I do for you?”
Ray detailed the crime scene, the meth found on Jason Collins, the style of the murders, the appearance of a drug deal gone bad, or revenge, or owed money, or whatever. How the victims were very low risk with no apparent bad habits or dark-alley connections.
“Any viable suspects?” Markham asked.
“None. We’re working a possible love triangle that looks pretty weak, a husband with an ironclad alibi doing in his wife during a divorce, and a possible drug angle. So far we have zip.”
“Ah, the life of a P.I.”
“Glamorous,” Ray said. “Just like on TV.”
Ray then told of their chat with Clive and Reba Mack.
“Clive and Reba,” Markham said. “I do hear their names more often than I’d like. If I had the manpower, I’d rattle their cage.”
“Not yet,” Ray said. “But I don’t think we’re quite through with them yet.”
Markham chuckled. “Wouldn’t want your crosshairs on me.”
“They mentioned a couple of dealers. Over in Mobile. Guys named Santiago Cortez and Alex Talley.”
“Oh, yeah. I know them.”
“Tell me.”
“Santiago. They call him Sandman, mainly because he deals in downers. Heroin, oxy, fentanyl. Also, meth and coke. He’s full service. Talley’s his partner. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Sandman definitely runs the crew.”
“Crew?”
“He’s got half a dozen guys that run with him. But he and Talley are at the top.”
“Any evidence they might deal over in Fairhope?”
“Nothing direct. Wouldn’t surprise me though. They reach over into Bay Minette and west to the University of South Alabama. Even down into your neck of the woods. Gulf Shores, Orange Beach, around there.”
“So they might be doing business in Fairhope and environs?” Pancake asked.
“If so, I’d suspect it’s small-time. I don’t think the Macks would stand for it. And we have no ripples that a war is on the horizon.”
“What else you got on them?”
“Other than armed and dangerous? Sandman is implicated in the murder of a small-time dealer in Mobile.
Some guy tried to move in on his territory. Found himself dead in the Bay. Gunshot to the head.”
Pancake flashed on Emily. And Jason.
Markham continued. “He has a loose connection with the Zetas. Through some cousin in Juarez, if I remember correctly. So the shooter in that deal might have been an import and not Sandman himself.”
“Anything we can use for leverage in case we need it?” Ray asked.
“Other than me?”
“That should be enough. Just didn’t want to unless you green-lighted it.”
“It would be my pleasure. And I could use a little humor to help cut through all this paperwork.”
“One more thing,” Pancake said. “Do you know a couple of guys that seem to work for the Macks? Jack Reed and Reavis Whitt?”
“Sure. I think Reed got grabbed once. By the locals. Nothing big. Are they part of your murder investigation?”
“Maybe,” Ray said. “Unfortunately, we’re spinning our wheels. Everything we’ve found leads nowhere.”
“Maybe Sandman can point you down the right path.”
“We could use that.”
“I’m here,” Markham said. “Chained to my desk. In case you need to introduce me into the discussions.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Sandman is stone cold. Watch your six.”
CHAPTER 42
THE TOP GUN U-turn Nicole made gave me whiplash. Okay, maybe not really. No pain, but it was a shock to my delicate system. At least it happened before we stopped for coffee, which had been the plan. We were on Section Street in downtown Fairhope. Fortunately, there was little traffic, but I’m not sure she noticed.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Hot pursuit.”
“What?”
“You didn’t see them?”
I scanned the street, the sidewalks, the shops. “See who?”
“Those two guys who work for the Macks.”
“What guys?”
She glanced at me, shook her head. “Do you not pay attention? Or is it a memory problem?”
Were those my only choices? If so, which was the right one? Reminded me of every test I ever took in college. I never did very well on those. Baseball, sure; exams, not my strong suit. I’m not sure she expected an answer anyway. Proved a moot point. Before I could make a stab at the answer, she continued.
