Muriel shot me a smile. The umbrellas on the tables were open, but only a handful of people were around, and my stool sat vacant, as if awaiting my arrival.
Muriel had placed a cold one on the bar before I sat down.
“The prodigal son returns.”
I lifted my glass in salute and in thanks. “It feels like forever.”
I closed my eyes and took a long drink, feeling the warm breeze on my back and the life force flow through my body. When I opened my eyes, Ron was smiling at me.
“Better?”
I nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
Ron turned to Muriel. “We need some of Mick’s best fish dip.”
Muriel winked and turned away to the interior of the bar, the dark depths of the building where few rarely ventured but from which the bar’s owner, Mick, produced fish dip to die for.
“You see Danielle?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, she was off last night.”
“How is she?”
“Busy.”
“Yes, but how is she?”
I shrugged. “She’d like to be sitting here right now.”
“What about you?”
“I’m happy to be sitting here right now.”
“Yes, but how are you?”
I took a long breath, in through my nose and out through my mouth.
“I feel like the earth’s moving under my feet and it might stop and leave everything the way it was, or it might collapse into a big sinkhole.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“What made you think that?”
“The lines on your face are deeper than usual.”
“Thanks, good pep talk.”
Ron smiled. “I got another insurance case. Pretty basic.”
“Good.”
“You want it?”
“You do better with the insurance stuff.”
“This one’s down in Miami.”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“How’s Ronzoni’s thing going?”
“In circles. The young woman has now gotten three threats, none of which are actually directed at her, and which demand money but offer no idea how or when to hand it over.”
“An amateur.”
“Feels that way.”
“Suspect pool?”
“Growing, as usual. There’s the overbearing mother and the possibly cash-strapped father. Both gain if Tania takes an overseas deal. So does her agent. Plus there are some old friends sniffing around for their slice of the pie, and an old teammate who claims to be tighter than Lycra with Tania, but who didn’t make the draft and may or may not be holding a grudge. And now I discover that Tania has a history of homesickness that might suggest she doesn’t want to leave home to play.”
“You think she’s making it up? Faking the threats so she doesn’t have to play?”
“She didn’t declare for the draft last year under the pretense of wanting to finish college, which sounds fine, but her old coach thinks it was really because she would have been recruited by Chicago.”
Ron shivered. “Those winters.”
“Yeah, I get that. But it’s also far from Florida. So now she’s got the chance to play overseas, which she’s balking at, and she’s probably getting a fair bit of pressure from her mother to do it.”
“You think she feels painted into a corner and is using the threats to get out of it rather than dealing with her mother?”
“Possible. There’s also the fact that two of the threats mention her dad, and it seems he’s the reason she’s so homesick.”
“Daddy issues, huh?”
“Who’s got daddy issues?” asked Muriel, placing a plate of fish dip and crackers on the bar.
“A client,” I said.
Muriel shrugged. “Everyone’s got daddy issues.”
“You?”
“Everyone. You more than most.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t disagree.
“I don’t know why it is,” she said. “Our moms grow us from seeds, and they nurture us, but our dads define us, by what they do, or what they don’t do.”
“Deep,” said Ron.
“Eat your dip, or I’ll make you tell about your dad.”
“Not much to tell,” he said with a wink.
I scooped some fish dip onto a cracker and then piled on some onion and jalapeños. It was as good as ever, smoked to perfection with thick chunks of fish that told you it wasn’t some crap out of a jar. I followed it with some beer and the world started to look the right way around again.
“So what’s the next step?”
“I need to talk to everybody up here again. The mom, the dad, even Tania. There’s a hanger-on or two that I need to rethink given this new train of thought. Plus there are the messages.”
“What about them?” Ron asked, stuffing his face with fish dip.
“Something doesn’t ring true, and I’m not sure what it is.”
“You mean apart from the fact that they don’t specify the important detail of how to get the money?”
“Yeah, apart from that. I think—”
My latest pearl of wisdom was interrupted by my phone ringing. I thought it might be Danielle, so I fished it out of my pocket. It wasn’t Danielle.
“Ronzoni,” I said. “What a pleasure.”
“Where are you?”
“Longboard’s.”
“Of course.”
“The sun is shining, the fish dip is smoked, and the beer is cold. You should come down.” I thought about sharing a beer with Ronzoni, which made me say, “On second thought.”
“If you’re not DUI, I need you at Camille’s, pronto.”
“What gives?”
“Someone smashed Camille’s car.”
“Like an accident?”
“Like a rock through the windshield.”
“You there?”
“I’m on my way. Can you get to the house?”
“I’m on it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I was sad. Sad to leave Longboard’s, sad to leave half-finished fish dip and sad to leave Muriel’s insights into the human condition. But at least I didn’t have far to go. I got to the gatehouse and found the guy inside in a very persnickety mood.
“I can’t let you in without an invitation.”
“You know me,” I said. “I’m working for Tania Bryson.”
“You don’t live here, you’re not coming in.”
“Call Mrs. Bryson—no, Hamilton. Call her.”
“She’s not available.”
“Try her.”
He gritted his teeth. “She’s not available.”
Then I got it. Someone had entered the gated community and smashed up Camille’s car, and that someone—in theory, at least—had come in through this gate. So rent-a-cop here had been reamed out about it, possibly by his boss, probably by Camille. Now he was a stickler for the rules.
I tossed over my options. I figured he probably wasn’t armed, so I could get out, grab him by the scruff of the neck and push the damned button for myself, but some might consider that assault. On the other hand—
The siren blurted behind me like a San Francisco ferry. The guard’s eyes nearly migrated from his head as he saw the flashing red light on the dash of Ronzoni’s car. I smiled in the rearview mirror. It was like something I’d seen on Starsky and Hutch.
The guard stepped out of his gatehouse and walked back to Ronzoni’s car. I watched in the mirror as he leaned into the window and spoke to Ronzoni, probably giving him chapter and verse about not letting some weirdo like me into the community, all cop to fellow rent-a-cop, and then I saw Ronzoni tell him exactly what was going to happen next.
The guard walked back, slack-shouldered, and didn’t make eye contact with me. He just got in his little box and hit his magic button and the boom gate rose. I thought about offering a pithy remark but nothing came, and silence is always a better departing line than something lame.
I led Ronzoni around the clean streets until w
e arrived at Camille’s. I flouted the community’s bylaws and parked on the street in front of her neighbor’s house, and Ronzoni parked in front of another. The space in front of Camille’s was taken by a Dodge Charger that could have only belonged to the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office.
Ronzoni met me in the driveway, in front of Camille’s car. It was a Chevy Malibu, in fine condition, except for the smashed windshield, where some kind of rock or other heavy object had been placed with extreme prejudice.
“Let me go in and see what’s what,” said Ronzoni, “then I’ll give you the word.”
I wasn’t going to argue. I felt somewhat surplus to requirements anyway, and the memory of the fish dip that Ron was finishing off was still like a fresh wound.
Ronzoni went inside. He was gone about five minutes. I looked up and down the street and saw nothing but nice neat homes with manicured grass and palm trees. It was as boring as all hell, but it looked like a fine place to live.
I heard the yelling from outside, then Ronzoni stepped through the front door and ambled over.
“Crozier says to butt out, in case you didn’t get all that.”
“I got the gist. Why is he here?”
“I called him,” said Ronzoni.
“You called him. Why?”
“It’s his jurisdiction, his case.”
I thought about telling him he was a stickler for procedure, but I figured we already knew that. Instead we both turned back toward the house as the yelling started up again. Then the sheriff’s detective stepped out of the door, followed by Camille’s resonant voice.
“I don’t even know why you’re here,” she yelled. “You got some miles quota you gotta meet, huh? You got some tracker in your car says you have to drive through a black neighborhood once a year? ’Cause you ain’t doing nothing to protect me or my little girl!”
“It’s a prank, Mrs. Hamilton,” said Crozier. “Kids.”
“Kids? You see any kids around here busting up cars? You see gangs hanging on the street? Of course you don’t, except through your good-for-nothing eyes, I bet you do.”
“I’ll let you know if we find anything,” he said, walking away from her.
“I won’t hold my breath. I bet if this was that Don Johnson’s neighborhood, you’d be all over it, patrols and everything. But for my family? You got nothing.”
I glanced at Ronzoni. It seemed we both agreed the Don Johnson comment felt very dated.
Camille spun on her heel and stormed inside. Crozier kept walking toward us.
“These people,” he said to us.
I wasn’t sure to what he was referring, but it didn’t sound kosher. Perhaps he meant people who lived in gated communities. There was a cost to walling oneself off from the world. It made people feel safe, but all it really did was make them insular. I wasn’t a believer in hiding from the world. We were all interconnected in some hippy-dippy cosmic way, and walls didn’t just serve to keep them out, they served to keep us in, and that was bad for the soul.
It was also possible he was talking about overbearing tiger parents, or even people who had worked hard to get out of the sun-bleached streets of Riviera Beach to somewhere they thought was better, nicer, cleaner.
Or maybe he was just a racist a-hole. It was hard to say.
The detective stopped next to us.
“It’s kids. I bet you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
I wasn’t taking that wager. Not because I thought I wouldn’t win, but because I thought I would. Did they not have folding currency where this moron came from?
“You two stay the hell out of my business, you got me?”
“What is your business, exactly?” I asked. “Fishmonger? Chimpanzee chauffeur? ’Cause you sure as hell ain’t a very good cop.”
He leaned in close. I got a hint of something I swear smelled like embalming fluid.
“I’m the sheriff,” he said.
Then he got in his car and drove away. We waited until he pulled out of sight.
“He’s not really the sheriff,” said Ronzoni. “He just works for the sheriff’s office.”
“I know how it works, Ronzoni.”
I looked at Camille’s windshield again. If this was another threat, it had taken a more physical turn. I thought about the previous threats, and what Crozier had said about kids, which made me think of Tania’s old school friend, L’nita, and her sidekick Keisha, and their soft-sell protection racket. Maybe they had graduated from soft sell. Or maybe Tania had put a rock through her mother’s windshield to ram home a point.
Ronzoni took some photos of the car while I wandered inside.
I found Tania sitting on the sofa with another young woman I didn’t know. Tania looked concerned. She wasn’t tearing up or anything—she didn’t grab me as that type of person—but she wore the stress across her taut face. She might have been acting, but she was Meryl Streep-good if so. Her friend was rubbing her shoulder with that look of worry that people get when events don’t really affect them and they can’t completely understand what all the fuss is about, but they feel like a shoulder rub is called for.
“Tania,” I said. “You all right?”
She nodded without energy. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
I looked at her friend. “And you are?”
I got a look that suggested we weren’t going to be lifelong friends, and I saw Camille’s family line in her eyes.
“Family,” she said. “Who the hell are you?”
She looked me up and down, genuinely trying to figure it out. I clearly wasn’t a cop, except as the aforementioned retired, bar-owning kind.
“I’m a private investigator,” I said.
“You not doing a very good job.”
I shrugged. She wasn’t completely out of line.
“You got a name?” I asked.
“Sheryl,” she said.
I glanced at Tania. “Where’s Rami?”
Tania shrugged. “Out.”
“Out? Like where?”
“I really don’t know, Miami. She was here earlier, and then she went out.”
I looked back at Rami’s replacement. Perhaps they were tag-teaming.
“Look after her, Sheryl.”
“What you think I’m doin’?”
I walked out of the living room and toward the back patio, where I could see Camille sitting. I slid the door open but she didn’t move, so I stepped out and took a seat on the other side of the table. I wasn’t really looking forward to having a poolside chat with Camille. In my experience she wasn’t such fine company on a good day, and this really didn’t feel like a good day. She didn’t look like she was up for a little gossip session, either. But here I was.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Do I look okay?” The saving grace was she didn’t yell it. “That cop is a fool.”
“I tend to agree with you on that.”
“Do you always play backup to the cops?”
“No, they’re generally better at their job than Detective Crozier.”
“He’s a fool,” she said again. “He doesn’t care about me or Tania.”
“I agree he is doing the bare minimum.”
“Bare minimum? He’s doing less than that. What did he do about the threat letter? And I bet he does even less about my smashed windshield. I won’t even start about my jewels.”
“Your jewels?”
“Yes.”
“What about your jewels?”
“Some of my jewelry has been stolen.”
“Stolen? When?”
“Sometime today, I’m guessing. Possibly last night.”
“What was taken?”
“A necklace and some rings. Some earrings.”
“Were they worth a lot?”
“A lot to me. The necklace belonged to my grandmother.”
“And you’re saying Detective Crozier wasn’t interested in that?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell him?”
“You need to tell the sheriff’s office about the jewelry.”
“Why?”
“Is it insured?”
“It’s on my homeowners policy, I suppose.”
“The insurance company will require a police report before they pay out.”
“I don’t want a payout, I want the jewels.”
“I understand that, but in the worst case, you’ll want to claim.”
“You saying they can’t be found?”
“No, but the sheriff’s office can’t find what they don’t know is missing.”
“I’m not talking about them, I’m talking about you.”
I was about to tell her that I hadn’t been hired to find the family jewels, I had been hired to protect something a whole lot more valuable, but I didn’t think she would be too eager to hear it. Instead, I pulled out a business card.
“You got any photos of the missing stuff?”
“I guess so. I wear them every now and then.”
“Can you email me the photos, so I know what I’m looking for?”
She shrugged, and I placed my card on the table next to her. She picked up her phone and I assumed began searching for the photos.
“Can I get you a coffee or something?” I asked.
“I don’t take caffeine in the afternoons.”
“That’s a good strategy. How about tequila?”
She frowned at me.
“It seems to be a thing these days. Not my cup of joe, but . . .”
“I’m watching my health. I only do smoothies in the evenings.”
“Smoothies? That I know something about. Can I get you one?”
She shrugged like she didn’t care either way, but the lack of effort in it suggested maybe she was leaning more toward yes than no, so I got up and went back inside.
The kitchen was all white cupboards, black-quartz counters and stainless-steel appliances. I looked in the fridge and found a selection of fruits and veg: strawberries, blueberries, carrots, and kale. There was a bunch of bananas in a bowl, and the blender on the counter looked like a well-loved industrial thing that could shred coins. I tossed in the carrots and a few cups of water and gave it a blitz, and then followed with the kale and berries and banana. Then I got some ice from the freezer and tossed it in, and then in a flash of inspiration I went back to the fridge and found a piece of ginger root. It was my secret ingredient. I peeled the skin with the edge of a teaspoon and then dropped an inch-long chunk into the blender and fired it up one last time.
Half Court Press Page 15
