by Ron Base
There was a long pause before Joshua said, “We don’t have a mother.”
“She’s dead,” pronounced Madison, ever the realist.
“I’m sorry,” Tree said.
Marcello said, “There is no doubt this dude is up to something, and my friends here are worried.”
“Concerned,” Madison once again interjected.
“I think we can help them, don’t you?” Marcello the problem-solver.
“We have money.” Joshua said this in a way that suggested that was the clincher.
“There you go,” Marcello said.
“We might be able to come up with as much as twenty-five dollars,” Joshua declared.
“If we get the results we’re looking for,” added Madison.
“Fifty per cent of that would be yours,” Marcello said to Tree.
Tree tried not to smile. “I’m coming up in the world, Marcello. The last time you hired me, I only earned seven dollars.” He focused on Madison and Joshua. “However, I don’t think employing me to investigate your father is the answer you’re looking for.”
“Why not?” said Madison. “Adults use detectives all the time to find out things about their wives and their husbands, even their kids. Why can’t kids hire someone to find out about their father?”
“I just don’t think I’m the person for this,” Tree said.
To Tree’s amazement, Joshua’s eyes welled with tears. “Something is wrong,” he said in a quivering voice.
Madison sounded equally frantic. “They’re going to hurt our father, I just know it.”
“Who do you think is going to hurt him?” Tree asked.
Madison stared at him, starting to tremble, tears in her eyes, too.
“Please don’t cry,” Tree said.
“I’m not crying,” Madison blubbered. “I don’t cry!”
“Marcello said you would help us,” chimed in Joshua, his voice breaking with emotion.
Tree sat there, not knowing quite what to say.
“There’s no one else to go to,” Madison said.
Joshua’s stricken, tear-stained face, Marcello’s anxious look, and Madison’s imploring, teary glare. Damn, he thought to himself. How did he manage to get himself into these messes?
He looked at Madison and said, “What’s your father’s name?”
“Granger,” Madison said instantly. “Wayne Granger.” She sat up straight in her chair. The tears had magically disappeared.
“Do you have a photograph of him?”
“That’s the other thing,” Joshua said. “He won’t let anyone take his picture.”
“Who drove you over here this morning?”
“That’s our driver,” Joshua said. His tears were gone, too. “His name is Curtis.”
“You have a driver named Curtis?”
“That’s right,” Joshua said.
“Did you tell him why you are here?”
“No,” Madison said. “We told Curtis that we were coming to the Visitors Center for a school project.”
“That was my idea,” said Marcello.
“We told him that,” Joshua added, “because he tells our father everything. He’s sort of Dad’s spy.”
“And he scares us,” Madison said. “We don’t think he’s up to much good, either.”
“Okay, where do you live?”
“Right now, we’re on Rabbit Road.”
“What’s the number?”
“Five fifty-five,” said Joshua.
“My wife’s right,” Tree said. The three kids looked at him. “She thinks I’m crazy.”
The kids gazed at him as if crazy was the most natural thing in the world.
“All right, let me see what I can do.”
Relieved expressions flooded the three apprehensive faces aligned before him. “But I’m not promising anything, okay?”
Madison stood and unslung her backpack. Then she extracted a pink-laminated wallet, opened it up and carefully withdrew a couple of wrinkled ten dollar bills and put them on the desk in front of Tree. “We’re going to have to owe you the rest,” she said.
“It’s all right,” Tree said. “Let’s see what I can do before we start worrying about how I’m going to get paid.”
“No, no,” Marcello said, grabbing for the bills. “We’ll take the money.”
“Marcello,” Tree said with a warning tone in his voice.
Marcello sighed and handed the bills back to Madison. “This is no way to start a partnership, working for free,” he said in a sullen voice.
“We are not partners,” Tree said.
Marcello did not look convinced.
7
Blast Marcello, anyway, Tree thought as he huddled inside the Beetle, tired, thirsty—why did he always forget to bring bottled water on these stakeouts?—and now his sciatic nerve was acting up, sending sharp pulses of pain down his leg. How did he get talked into these things? What was he doing with what little life he had left in him cramped into a tiny car in the night hoping to get a glimpse of—what? He wasn’t even sure of that.
As soon as the kids left his office, he had Googled Wayne Granger’s name. Wayne Granger was a former major league baseball right-handed relief pitcher who had played for teams that included the St. Louis Cardinals. Tree doubted he was the kids’ dad. Another Wayne Granger sold real estate in Washington, Pennsylvania. There was also a Wayne Granger who lived outside Montreal, Quebec. But there was no Wayne Granger living on the west coast of Florida, at least not one who came up in the search engine.
So who was the Wayne Granger at number five fifty-five Rabbit Road?
The house stood at the end of a laneway. There was a For Lease sign beside the mail box. When Tree arrived, he had parked down the way and then walked back to the mail box. Through the palm trees forming a barrier along the road he could see a frame structure on stilts with a screened-in porch. A light from the house shone through the trees. Otherwise, the inky blackness of the night pressed in on him. Huddled in the repositioned Beetle, he felt exposed. If someone came along asking questions what possible excuse could he have for being parked at the side of a residential street?
The cellphone on the seat beside him started vibrating. He picked it up and saw that it was Freddie.
“Hi, my darling,” he said into the phone.
“What are you up to?” Freddie said.
“I’m sitting here counting the number of ways I’ve misspent my life,” he said.
“Well, you’re not doing it at home. Where are you?”
“Outside some guy’s house on Rabbit Road.”
“Dare I ask why?”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Let me put it this way,” Freddie said. “Is it dangerous?”
“It’s worse than dangerous,” Tree said. “It’s boring.”
“Personally, my love, I opt for boring over dangerous. Do you have a new client?”
“I’m not sure. Sort of, I suppose.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that Marcello has once again talked me into something I should never have been talked into.”
“Tree, for heaven’s sake. I thought you weren’t going to do this.”
“His two clients, kids, showed up in a chauffeured Lincoln worried about their father.”
“A chauffeur drove them to your office?”
“His name is Curtis.”
“What do they want you to do?”
“They want me to find out what their father is up to.”
“And that’s why you’re sitting outside a house on Rabbit Road in the middle of the night?”
“Correct.”
There was a long pause before Freddie said, “So now you’re partners with Marcello?”
“The two Sanibel Sunset detectives.” Tree said it with a certain amount of ruefulness in his voice.
“Tree, tell me that’s not going to happen.”
“No, of course not.”
“Except it already has
happened.”
“I got talked into doing this one thing, that’s all,” Tree said. “And I’m sitting here kicking myself for it.”
There was another long pause, followed by a sigh, before Freddie said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“As usual, I don’t think I do.”
“Please, please, Tree, stay out of trouble.”
“I don’t think there’s much trouble here, just boredom,” Tree said.
He no sooner uttered the words than a bright light flooded the Beetle. He squinted into the rear view mirror and saw a car pull up behind him. He said to Freddie, “I’ve got to go.”
“Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” Tree said. “I’ll call you later.”
He placed his phone on the seat beside him. In the side view mirror he could see someone leave the car. Tree opened the driver’s door and eased out. He straightened as Detective Owen Markfield came toward him.
“Well, well,” Markfield said. “Imagine finding Sanibel’s intrepid private detective out here in the darkness on Rabbit Road.”
Tree didn’t say anything. Markfield had a flashlight which he now shone on Tree. “Are you armed?” he said.
“No,” Tree answered.
“Tell you what, Tree. Why don’t you come back toward my car, turn around, and place your hands on the hood.”
“Come on, Markfield. You know I don’t have a gun.”
Markfield’s voice tightened when he said, “Don’t make me ask you again.”
Tree exhaled loudly and then moved back to Markfield’s car and spread his arms out and positioned his hands against the hood. He felt Markfield pat him down. “Okay, Tree, you can turn around now.”
Tree turned and Markfield shone the light into his eyes. “You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Just out for a drive,” was all Tree could think of to say.
“It’s almost midnight.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Tree said. “Is it against the law to drive around Sanibel Island at night?”
“You weren’t driving, Tree. You’re parked on the side of the road. Also, we had a call reporting a suspicious person in the area.”
“So you just happened to be on duty, is that it, Detective?”
“I want you to turn around, Tree,” Markfield said.
“Why do you want me to do that?”
Markfield took a step forward, balled his fist, and jabbed it into Tree’s stomach. He collapsed to the ground, choking for air.
“You’ve got to learn not to ask so many questions,” he dimly heard Markfield say.
Then Tree heard another voice: “What’s going on here?”
A figure appeared—Ryde Bodie in shorts and a T-shirt, carrying a flashlight.
Markfield stared at the newcomer. Ryde helped Tree to his feet. “You okay, Tree?”
Markfield said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Ryder Bodie. I rent the house down the lane. I heard a commotion and came out. The question is, who are you?”
Markfield opened up the billfold that contained his Sanibel Police identification. Ryde nodded and said, “What brings you out here, Detective?”
“You know this man?” Markfield pointed at Tree.
“Private Detective Tree Callister is doing some work for me,” Ryde said in the sort of easy, reassuring voice that somehow made everything seem normal, even threatening cops in the middle of the night.
Markfield looked surprised—and then suspicious. “Yeah? What kind of work is he doing for you?”
“As you know there have been a lot of break-ins recently on the island. I’m renting this place until renovations are completed on my house on Captiva Drive. Meanwhile, I’ve got two small children, and I want to make certain they’re protected. I’ve hired Mr. Callister to keep an eye on the house at night, report anything suspicious.”
Markfield looked at Tree. “What about it, Callister? You see anything suspicious tonight?”
“The only suspicious thing I’ve seen is what appears to be an assault on one of my employees,” Ryde Bodie said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Markfield said. But in the wash of headlights, Tree caught a flicker of concern.
Ryde, very much in command, casually turned to Tree. “What about it, Tree? Did this man attack you?”
Tree studied Markfield for a couple of long beats before he said, “Detective Markfield was investigating reports of an intruder in the neighborhood. I think he was only trying to serve and protect. Isn’t that right, Detective Markfield?”
Markfield’s lip curled. “Don’t think this changes anything, Callister. We’ll meet up another time.”
“It’s always good to see you, Detective,” Tree said, keeping his voice even.
Markfield gave Ryde Bodie a hard look and then wheeled around and walked back to his car.
He got inside, started the engine, and spun onto the roadway, throwing up a spray of dirt and gravel in his wake. The world descended into darkness. Ryde Bodie’s arm moved and Tree could see that he was holding something black and ugly.
It took him a moment to realize it was a gun.
Pointed at him.
8
Tree managed to say, “What are you going to do with that?”
“Generally in South Florida guns are used to shoot people,” Ryde Bodie said.
“I thought they were for target practice.”
“They just say that so you can shoot people,” Ryde said.
“How many people have you shot?”
“This is what they call the Fabrique Nationale,” Ryde said evenly. “It’s more commonly known as the FN Five-seven. It can penetrate a police officer’s Kevlar vest. You’re damned lucky I didn’t shoot you with it.”
“Detective Markfield will be sorry to hear he saved my life,” Tree said.
“This is not a good time to come creeping around my house in the middle of the night.”
“Sorry about that,” Tree said.
“I can’t see a thing out here.” Ryde lowered his gun. “Let’s go inside. I could use a drink, and we can talk.”
Ryde snapped on his flashlight again, and Tree followed its wavering beam along the laneway to the house. The two men climbed a steep flight of stairs to the screened-in porch and into a sitting room illuminated by a single lamp. The light fell on two ugly brown love seats facing one another.
“Come on,” Ryde said. “I want to check on the kids.”
He veered down a short corridor and opened the first door on his right. Light from the hall fell across twin beds revealing Madison in pink pajamas sprawled on her back. On the adjacent bed, only the top of what Tree imagined was Joshua’s head was visible above the covers.
“They are wonderful,” Ryde said. “Especially when they are sound asleep.” He threw a telling glance at Tree. “And not sneaking around, hiring private detectives.”
Tree tried not to look embarrassed—and failed miserably. “How did you find out?”
“Your young clients were so proud of themselves, they couldn’t keep quiet about it. I only had to reprimand Madison once before she was warning me that she and Joshua had hired a detective who would soon make me pay for my many transgressions.”
Tree rolled his eyes, and said, “Oh, no.”
Ryde grinned and said, “Let’s get that drink I talked about.”
When they came back into the sitting room, Curtis, the big chauffeur who had driven the children that morning, was waiting in the kitchen holding a semi-automatic weapon. He held it in a way that suggested he knew how to use it.
“Did you meet Curtis?” Ryde asked.
Tree nodded. “I didn’t recognize him with the gun in his hand.”
“That’s an AR15 Assault Rifle,” Ryde said.
“Of course,” Tree said. “Who in South Florida doesn’t have one?”
Ryde laughed and said, “Curtis drives the kids, and helps with security.”
Tree looked at him and said, “You need a guy with an assault rifle for security?”
Ryde said, “What would you like to drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
Ryde’s eyebrows shot up and down. “You don’t drink?”
“Not anymore,” Tree said.
“I need a scotch after all this.” He nodded to Curtis. “Do me a favor, Curtis, check around outside, make sure we don’t have any more visitors.”
Curtis nodded and went out through the porch. Tree heard the sound of his heavy footsteps going down the stairs.
Ryde disappeared into the kitchen and came back a couple of minutes later holding a tumbler three-quarters full of amber-colored liquid. “Sit down, will you?” He indicated one of the sofas. “Sure I can’t get you something?”
“No thanks,” Tree said.
Ryde settled onto a sofa and shook his head. “A detective who doesn’t drink, who takes on ten-year-old clients, and has the Sanibel Island cops breathing down his neck. An interesting combination.”
“I may not be much of a detective, but I do know worried kids when I see them—and Joshua and Madison certainly are concerned about you.”
“Their mother was killed in a car accident three years ago,” Ryde said quietly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“I was driving at the time. Joshua and Madison hold me responsible for what happened, and I can’t say as I blame them. But the fact is, since then, they’ve concocted all sorts of wild ideas about me. We’ve all been through a tough time. I try to keep that in mind when I’m dealing with my children.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve complicated things for you,” Tree said.
“Well, now you know something about my background, Tree.”
When in fact Tree didn’t know much of anything.
Ryde continued: “How about you? What are you? A former police officer?”
“No,” Tree said. “I was a reporter in Chicago. For the Sun-Times. I was downsized a couple of years ago. My wife and I decided to move to Sanibel Island so she could take a job at Dayton’s.”
“Now she owns the store?”
“She doesn’t put it quite that way,” Tree said.
“She’s done well for herself.” And Tree hadn’t? Is that what he was getting at?
Ryde swallowed some of his scotch. “Tell me, what you did to rile up that cop?”
