“Yes,” said J.D., “but his phone goes directly to voice mail. I left a message this morning, but I haven’t heard back.”
“When I tried to call him this morning, I got his voice mail, too.”
“May I ask what your relationship is with Mr. King?”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“How long have you been together?”
“A couple of years.”
“I thought he only moved to this area a year ago,” J.D. said.
“That’s right, but he used to visit when he still lived in New York.”
“How did you meet?”
Josie sat quietly for a moment as if trying to formulate an answer. “Mutual friends.”
“Who?”
“Why are you asking about all this?”
“Ms. Tyler, I’m investigating a murder. Every bit of information can help me solve it.”
“You don’t think Porter was involved in anything like that, do you?”
“No,” J.D. lied, “but every bit of information helps.”
“Well, I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore.”
“Josie,” J.D. said, her voice harsh, “I’m going to peel you like a grape. I’m going to find out everything about you, where you grew up, where you went to school, every job you ever held, every man you ever screwed, and then I’m going to come back here and we’re going to have this conversation again. And if I find anything in your background that doesn’t look right, we’ll be having this conversation in an interrogation room down at the police station.”
Josie sat back with a jerk, her face white and wrinkling as if she were about to burst into tears. J.D. almost felt sorry for her, but she was pretty sure that Josie Tyler was holding out on her. And J.D. didn’t have time for it. She sat and stared at the blonde, waiting.
“Okay,” Josie said, her voice loosening, taking on more of a southern inflection. “I grew up in Live Oak, Florida. You know where that is?”
J.D. shook her head.
“Up near the Georgia border. It’s a small town, and I left as soon as I turned sixteen. Didn’t finish high school.”
“Weren’t your parents concerned? Didn’t they look for you?”
Josie laughed bitterly, more a croak than a laugh. “I doubt they even knew I was gone. When my old man got horny, he might have wondered where I was. He didn’t have anybody to stick it into.”
“I’m sorry,” said J.D.
Josie shrugged. “Shit happens. I went to Jacksonville and waitressed and cleaned hotel rooms and worked on an assembly line in an electronics plant. I lived with two other girls, and we starting doing some drugs, you know, just to take the edge off.”
“Did you ever get arrested for the drugs?”
“No. We never did a whole lot of them. Then I met an older man who started paying my rent, so I moved into a cheap little apartment, and he’d come by now and then and jump my bones. I was still working at the plant, but I was doing okay. Then, out of the blue, the man up and died of a heart attack.
“Then a friend of his came by and offered to pick up where his buddy had left off. In other words, he’d pay my rent if I’d fuck him whenever he wanted it. He wasn’t bad looking, and I took the deal.
“This guy owned a topless joint out on North U.S. 1, and he said he thought I could do pretty good if I’d get a boob job. He paid for it and I got these suckers.” She put both hands on her breasts and jiggled them. There didn’t seem to be a whole lot of play in them.
“I was making pretty good money,” Josie continued, “but the owner caught me screwing one of the customers for a little extra dough. He went through the roof, screaming that I put his life in danger. He said you never know what kind of disease the dirtbags who hung out at the club might have. He kicked me out.
“I had a few bucks saved, so I went to Tampa and got a job dancing at a club out on Dale Mabry Highway. A couple of years ago some dude paid me and two of the other girls to party with some high rollers at a hotel on Clearwater Beach. That’s where I met Porter.”
“He was part of the group of high rollers?” asked J.D.
“Yeah.”
“Did he set up the party?”
“No. Somebody else did that.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“No. I only saw him one more time.”
“Another party?”
“Yeah.”
“Where was that?”
“His house, I think.”
“You think?”
“I think he owned the house. I’m not sure.”
“I take it Mr. King is paying for this place.”
“Right. He owns it, I guess. He has a lot of money.”
“How did you two hook up?”
“After one of the parties, he made me a proposition. He’d take care of me if I’d take care of him, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. Where were you Wednesday?”
“Right here.”
“You didn’t go to Naples?”
“No.”
“Did Mr. King spend Tuesday night here?”
She thought for a moment. “Yeah. He was here. Left early on Wednesday morning.”
“Did you see him on Wednesday?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you to say you’d gone to Naples with him if anybody asked?”
She hesitated. “You’re not going to tell Porter anything we say today, are you?”
“No, but if you don’t tell me the truth and I find out, and I will, you’ll be charged with impeding a criminal investigation.”
“Yes. He told me to say that.”
“Do you know if he went to Naples?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Okay, Josie. I appreciate your honesty. I’d like for you to look at some pictures. See if you can identify any of the men who might have been at the parties.”
“If it’ll help.”
“I’ll have to get the pictures and bring them by later today or tomorrow. Will you call me if you hear from Porter?”
“I guess so. I don’t want to get in any trouble.”
“You’re doing fine, Josie. You keep cooperating with me, and I promise you won’t be in any trouble.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Logan Hamilton was sitting in my living room when Jock and I got back to the key. It was late afternoon and he was sipping some of my Scotch and watching a college basketball game on TV.
“Mind if we come in?” I asked as we walked into the living room.
“Make yourselves comfortable. There’s some barely passable Scotch in the kitchen, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“I don’t drink Scotch,” I reminded him.
“I can tell.”
“Where’ve you been the last couple of days?” I asked.
“Practicing for the tournament.”
“You mean,” said Jock, “that you’ve actually been out on the golf course? Did it help?”
“Not exactly. I cured my slice, though.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. Now it’s a hook,” Logan said.
“God help us,” said Jock. “You’re planning to embarrass me, aren’t you?”
“Well, not exactly planning to, but it’ll probably happen. What’s going on with the investigations?”
“Let’s wait until J.D. gets here so I don’t have to repeat myself,” I said.
“Fair enough. Can I have another Scotch?”
“I thought you didn’t like my Scotch.”
“Beats no Scotch,” Logan said. “Barely.”
I booted up my computer and found the county property appraiser’s website that should show me the owner of the land in Avon Park. The site was down. A banner said that routine maintenance was taking place and the site should be back up by the opening of business on Monday.
My front door opened and J.D. walked in. “You guys been here drinking all day?” she asked.
“We just got back from Avon Park,” I sa
id. “Found Logan here depleting my whisky supply.”
“Did you find out anything in Avon Park?”
I told her about our trip and what we’d discovered and about not being able to find out who owned the Fredrickson’s grove property. “I’m not sure that any of it means anything, but I’d like to know who bought that grove from Jim Fredrickson’s estate. They’ve got more weapons out there than an infantry squad.”
“I wonder what’s in the safe,” she said.
“Me too,” I said. “How’d your interview with King’s girlfriend go?”
“She’s a piece of work, but I think she finally told me the truth. Most of it anyway.” She told us about her day, what she’d found at King’s and her interrogation of Josie Tyler.
Logan asked, “Have you put together a timeline?”
“In my head,” said J.D., “but it might help to rethink it.”
“Okay,” said Logan, who was in his element. He loved puzzles and his mind worked in ways that were often odd, but always precise. It was as if he could look at a jigsaw puzzle and imagine the whole picture in his mind. “Tuesday,” he said, “some dude shoots and kills Ken Goodlow and King was seen talking to the killer just before the shooting. Then the killer drives off a bridge and dies. King leaves the island, spends Tuesday night with his girlfriend, and then disappears for the day on Wednesday. On Thursday, he lies to J.D. about that. Also on Tuesday, J.D. interviews Bud Jamison and thinks he’s lying about not knowing why Goodlow would need legal advice. On Thursday evening, King is at Pattigeorge’s and Sammy overhears him telling Caster that they have to take Jamison out, or something to that effect. On Friday, J.D. reinterviews Jamison, knowing nothing about the threat made by King, and again she thinks he’s lying about something. Matt, you and Jock go to Jamison’s house on Friday evening and find him gone, and Caster shows up and wants to kill you. You think it’s a coincidence that he wants revenge for his Mafia buddy who attacked you on Wednesday, but he was really there to take out Jamison. Which, according to the theory, may tie Caster into Katie Fredrickson’s situation, whatever that is. Now it appears that King has absconded and the grove once owned by Jim Fredrickson has a house on it that contains an armory and a large safe.”
We talked it through, going over the last few days in minute detail, rehashing our thoughts and impressions. When we were through, J.D. said, “What about the documents we found in the killer’s car?”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” said Logan. “I can’t see how they tie into all this. They might not be relevant to the murder. Anything else?”
“That’s about it,” I said. “You got any ideas, Logan?”
“Got any more of that Scotch?”
“You keep complaining about it,” I said, “but you keep drinking it.”
“The more I drink, the better it tastes. Kind of strange, don’t you think?”
“I need to get back over to Josie Tyler’s,” said J.D. “I want to do a photo lineup with Caster’s picture and some others who we know aren’t involved in this mess. I’m wondering if Jim Fredrickson might have been involved in those parties Josie told me about. I’ll slip a picture of him into the mix. See what she has to say.”
“What makes you think Fredrickson might be involved?” I asked.
“I don’t know, except that according to the caretaker over in Avon Park, there were parties going on at Fredrickson’s place. Josie told me she went to a party once at a house. I didn’t know about the Avon Park stuff then, and I didn’t think to ask where the house was.”
“Probably worth a try,” said Jock.
“I’m going home for a quick shower,” said J.D. “If you guys want to go downtown with me, I’ll only need a few minutes with Josie and then we can have dinner.”
“I’m in,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Jock.
“Not me,” said Logan. “I’m already pretty drunk. I think I’ll stop by and see Sammy and then head home.”
“You make another stop, buddy,” I said, “and Marie’s going to kick your butt when you get home.”
“You’re probably right. We’re going to dinner with her aunt tonight. I better not show up with a load on.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Jock and I were sitting in the Explorer parked in front of a high-rise condo complex on Gulfstream Avenue in downtown Sarasota. J.D. had asked us to wait in the car while she went up to talk to Josie Tyler. We’d stopped by the Longboat Key Police Station to pick up the pictures J.D. needed. She had been gone about three minutes when my phone rang. “Matt,” J.D. said, “you and Jock get up here on the double. Twelfth floor.”
“What’s up?”
“Now,” she said and hung up.
“Let’s go,” I said. “Something’s up with J.D.”
We took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The doors opened and I saw J.D. standing about twenty feet down the hall in front of an open door, her weapon drawn. I pulled my pistol from the holster in the small of my back. The one I’d been carrying since I went to meet Appleby in Tampa. Jock’s pistol was in his hand.
We trotted down the hall. J.D. had her finger to her lips, signaling us to be quiet. She moved to meet us. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Maybe nothing,” she said, “but the front door was wide open. I didn’t want to go inside without backup.”
We moved toward the door and followed J.D. into a small foyer. A kitchen was to our left and the living room in front of us. It was night now and the lights of the living room reflected off the dark windows. A leather sofa came into view as we moved forward. A blonde woman was sitting upright, her head resting on the cushioned back. She looked like she was asleep, except for the bullet hole in her forehead.
I saw an open door in the wall on the right side of the living room, probably leading to the bedroom. I moved quickly that way, holding my pistol in front of me. The lights in the room were on. I eased through the doorway, alert for any movement. I ignored the mess on the bed and slipped toward the door to the bathroom. I reached carefully around the doorjamb and found the light switch, turned it on. Empty. I turned back to the bedroom and to the king-size bed that took up a large part of it. A body lay sprawled on its back bleeding onto the coverlet, a large red splotch staining the left side of his shirt. I didn’t know the man, but I was pretty sure of his identity. A pistol that appeared to be a .22, an assassin’s weapon, was on the floor at the foot of the bed. A silencer was attached to the muzzle. I didn’t touch it. “J.D.,” I called. “You better come see this.”
She walked into the room and looked at the body, shook her head. “Well,” she said, “we found Porter King.”
We were back in the hallway when a young Sarasota patrolman arrived in response to J.D.’s 911 call. She identified herself and introduced Jock and me. “There’re two bodies in the apartment,” said J.D. “We went in, but came right back out. We haven’t disturbed the crime scene.”
“Okay,” said the young cop. “Captain McAllister’s on his way.”
“Captain McAllister himself?” J.D. asked. “Does he usually roll on homicides on weekends?”
“I don’t think so,” said the cop. “But my boss called me on my way here and said to be on my toes because the captain was on his way.”
We stood awkwardly while quietly waiting for the detective. In a few minutes a man in a suit and tie came up the elevator and walked toward us. “Doug McAllister,” J.D. said under her breath, and went to meet him. They talked for a minute or two, J.D. explaining what we found and who the victims were.
She led the captain over and introduced Jock and me as friends from Longboat. “We were on our way to dinner,” she said, “and I stopped by to have Josie look at a picture of Caster to see if she recognized him.” I noticed she didn’t mention the picture of Jim Fredrickson she’d slipped into the pile. I wondered about that, but figured she’d explain later.
“And you just went busting in there like the Three Stooges?” asked the captain.
“No,” said J.D. “They were waiting downstairs in the car when I came up. I saw the door standing open and called them in for backup.”
“Are you out of your mind, Detective?” asked McAllister, his voice rising in anger. “You called a couple of civilians for backup? Why didn’t you call us?”
“I did call you,” J.D. said, a bit of steel creeping into her voice. “I didn’t know what we had here, whether someone was hurt, whether there were others in the apartment or what. I sure didn’t want to be facing down more than one killer, if that’s what it was, by myself.”
“So you called on a couple of useless civilians to back you up?” The captain’s voice had gotten louder, incredulous.
“Hold the phone,” I said angrily. “Just who the hell—”
J.D. broke in. “I’ve got this, Matt.”
I knew I’d better shut up. I’d stepped into that minefield that was J.D.’s sense of self. She didn’t need some man coming to her rescue. She was able to take care of herself and didn’t need my protection, or my outrage at the way she was being treated.
She looked back at McAllister. “You’re out of line, Captain. I would suggest that you wait until you know the facts before jumping to conclusions. Now, if you want my cooperation on this little mess you have here, you’ll shut up and listen for a change.” Her voice was low and flat. She was irate, but holding it in. I’d seen her do this before. She had a steely control of her emotions when needed, and I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of the tongue lashing she was capable of meting out. I thought McAllister had better be careful.
“I noticed a security camera in the elevator,” said J.D., trying to lighten the mood, to move away from a confrontation.
“Yeah,” said McAllister, the heat gone from his voice. “I’ve got the manager on his way over to let us have a look at the video. You might as well go on to dinner. We’ll want statements, but we can get those by phone. I’ll have a detective contact you later this evening.”
“Maybe I should stick around until the manager gets here,” J.D. said. “I might recognize somebody on the video.”
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