by Debbie Burke
Relief washed over Jessica’s face and she stood straighter. “I was afraid he’d get in big trouble.”
The detective smiled. “Nah, he’s just doing what dogs do.”
Tawny liked him for reassuring the worried girl.
Churro wagged his tail, somehow understanding Jessica’s tension had eased.
Boyd faced Tawny. “Mr. Lido’s toothbrush might yield both blood and saliva. I’ll need to get that from you.”
She led him inside Smoky’s house to the bathroom. In the medicine cabinet, he found the toothbrush and sealed it in a baggie.
Tillman had followed them and stood in the doorway. “How long for DNA testing?”
Boyd spread his hands. “There’s quite a backlog. May be a month or more before we find out if there’s a match.”
He gave them his business card, said goodbye, and went out the back door. Through the kitchen window, Tawny watched him pause to speak to Jessica and to pet Churro, who wagged his tail. Then he headed for his cruiser and drove away.
Tawny faced Tillman. “Seems like a nice guy.”
He huffed. “Nice and useless.”
She waved her hand in front of her nose. “God, I can’t get rid of the smell. It’s seeped into my pores.”
“Pretty rank,” Tillman agreed.
“A month for DNA results. That’s a long time to wait.”
“Maybe we can fast-track that.” He pulled a baggie from his pocket. Inside were a few small tan splinters. “Before the detective got here, I broke a couple of chips off the ragged end of the bone. Should be enough for a private lab to test. Too bad you had to give up the toothbrush but there’s got to be something else around here with his DNA.”
Tawny cocked her head at him. He always found a way to expedite what he needed. She returned to the bathroom. In a drawer, she found Smoky’s brush, thick with grizzled salt and pepper hair. In the wastebasket, she picked out tissues spotted with blood that Smoky had used to stanch his battered nose after the beating. She carried the items to the kitchen table. “Think these will work?”
“Yeah,” he answered but his mind was already elsewhere.
She put the brush and tissues in baggies and washed her hands. “What about the shirt with the blood?”
“We’ll take that, too, even though that blood might not be Smoky’s. Hell, if this was a criminal case, the whole chain of evidence would be an impossible cluster, between the dog and the swamp.”
Tawny peered up at him. “What if it is a criminal case?”
“You mean, what if Gabriel and his guys are responsible? Yeah, I thought of that. But if they killed him and dumped his body in the lake, they’d know he was dead. They wouldn’t have come back here to question you or go to that bar searching for him.”
“Unless they weren’t looking for him. What if they were looking for what he took from them?”
Tillman considered. “Makes sense. Fits the betrayal of trust Gabriel mentioned.” His dark gaze hardened. He abruptly went outside, letting the door slam behind him.
A moment later, Tawny heard a thunk, then another. Through the kitchen window, she saw him raise an axe over his head then slam it down into the remaining stump of the oak tree. Over and over, chips flew into the air as his furious chopping continued.
She bit her lip, watching him pound his grief into the stump.
Chapter 13 – Honus Rosenbaum
Five long days after Irma knocked out the power, electricity finally came back on at Smoky’s house. The air conditioner hummed to life, waking Tawny. Beside her, Tillman snored on his side after a restless night. She slipped out of bed and quietly closed the door, letting him sleep.
Rather than boiling grounds in a pan on the barbecue, she was able to brew coffee in the drip machine. She sliced a bagel and put it in the toaster, smiling as the coils grew red with heat. In the laundry room, she filled the washer with their filthy clothes and started the cycle. Simple electric luxuries swelled her heart with gratitude.
But she worried about Tillman. He’d been silent and turned inside himself since he had demolished the remains of the oak stump with powerful blows from the axe. Only chips remained, scattered across the grass like confetti.
She knew his brilliant brain couldn’t stop analyzing Smoky’s death, the many unknown ways it could have occurred, calculating the odds and probabilities, running each theory to ground, then moving on to the next. Despite his cold logic, each possibility ended in unspeakable grief for him.
God, she hoped the old coach was already dead by drowning before the alligator had torn his body apart. Would they find enough remains to bury?
She heard water running in the bathroom. After a few minutes, she carried a mug of coffee in there and peeked through the shower curtain. “Nice change to have hot water again?”
He said nothing, expression blank.
With her fingertips, she traced weary lines scoring his long face. “I wish you’d been able to sleep a little longer.”
“Not much chance of that.” He rinsed soap off and stepped out of the tub.
She perched on the toilet lid, watching him run a towel over his lean, muscular frame. God, he was sexy. Yet, last night, he’d turned away from her caresses. That had never happened before. The depth of his sorrow was palpable.
“What do you want to do today?” she asked.
He scrubbed the towel over his face. “Take those samples to a private lab to test for DNA. I don’t care what it costs. If those bones are Smoky’s, I want the answer now.”
“Is there a lab around here?”
“Three choices in Tampa.” He gulped coffee then shook a can of shaving cream and spread foam over his stubble.
Watching him shave was a silly little pleasure Tawny always enjoyed. “Do you think the sheriff’s office will send divers?”
He scraped the razor up his neck and over his jutting jaw. “By the time they get around to a search, any remains will be long gone.”
“What about Churro? He’s done a pretty good job of finding evidence so far.”
He scowled. “That damn dog probably destroyed more evidence than he brought back. I bet he buried Smoky’s bones to snack on later.”
Her gut clenched at the image. She should have been used to Tillman’s harshness but, at times, he still shocked her. She forced her concentration back to the problem at hand. “I don’t know, Tillman. If he hadn’t found the shirt, wallet, and leg bones, we’d have nothing.”
He exhaled heavily. “I suppose.” He wiped the last traces of foam from his face and threw the towel over the shower rod.
She rose and slipped her arms around him from behind, her cheek pressing against the tense, knotted muscles of his back. “I’m sorry about Smoky.”
He didn’t respond. His body felt only slightly warmer than hugging a marble statue.
***
The DNA lab was a suite in a one-story strip mall on a busy Tampa boulevard. Tillman pulled Raul’s van under a magnolia tree in the parking area. Inside, the receptionist listened to his request then led Tawny and Tillman to a small conference room.
Moments later, a lean, brown-skinned man about sixty entered the room. His gray hair was short and he sported a neat goatee. “I’m Dr. Rupert Thomas Jefferson. I’m the owner of this lab.” He shook their hands then said with a wry smile, “To answer the first question many people ask me, yes, I am a descendant of Sally Hemings and our third president. That’s what prompted my initial interest in DNA when I was a medical student. The field has opened up immensely in the past few decades.”
As Tillman often did when meeting a person for the first time, he threw out a test. “My daughter would like to talk to you. She’s working on a school project about our Ethiopian and Orthodox Jewish ancestors.”
Jefferson took a business card from a holder on the table and wrote on the back. “This is my private number. Have her call me. I’d be glad to talk to her. It’s important for young people to understand their origins.”
&nbs
p; Tillman put the doctor’s card in his wallet and slid one of his own across the table. Tawny knew Dr. Jefferson had passed the test with his willingness to help Arielle. Tillman couldn’t be bothered with anything beyond the here-and-now but he would encourage his daughter’s interest in history.
Jefferson scanned the card. “Montana? You’re a long way from home, Mr. Rosenbaum.”
Tillman ignored the attempt at polite, small talk and pushed ahead: “Here is the reason for our visit today.” On the conference table, he set out the baggies containing Smoky’s hairbrush, tissues, the scrap of Smoky’s shirt, and the bone chips. “My good friend, Smoky Lido, disappeared during the hurricane. This is his hairbrush and bloody tissues he used—known samples. He was wearing this shirt the last time we saw him. The stains on it appear to be blood. These are bits of bone. I want all these items tested to determine if the blood on the shirt and the bones belong to Smoky.”
The doctor pulled on his goatee. “Interesting. Have you gone to the police?”
Tillman said, “To no avail. The sheriff’s office is too overloaded to conduct even a cursory search. They have the rest of the bones but their DNA testing is backlogged.” On his phone, he pulled up a photo he’d taken of the tibia and fibula and showed the doctor. “I broke chips off this splintered end.”
Jefferson studied the photo then picked up the baggies and examined the contents. He regarded Tillman for a long moment, assessing. “Do I need to be concerned with chain of custody?”
Tawny knew problems might arise because Tillman had tampered with evidence. But he obviously didn’t care.
His expression remained impassive. “Right now, doctor, I don’t give a shit. I will pay for expedited processing. I want results ASAP. I need to know.”
Jefferson fingered his goatee again.
Tillman read his hesitation. “There won’t be any blowback on you. I’ll pay cash and no one needs to find out about our visit today.”
Jefferson rocked back in his chair. “I’ll run the testing myself. You’ll have answers tomorrow.”
Tawny caught a fleeting quiver along Tillman’s hard, jutting jaw. He rose. “Thank you, sir.” He hurried from the room down the hall.
Tawny was used to his impatient rushing but knew this reaction meant more than that. She extended her hand to Jefferson. “We appreciate your help. Smoky was like a father to Tillman.”
The doctor’s grasp was warm and firm. “I understand.” His eyes showed he really did. “This may sound strange but one of the most rewarding parts of my profession is identifying the remains of loved ones who’ve been missing. It’s not a pleasant job. Still, I’ve found humans are equipped to deal with death but they don’t deal well with uncertainty. When you can’t find out if someone you love is alive or dead—that limbo is the worst torture of all.”
Tawny recognized the truth in the doctor’s words. “I’m glad we came to your lab.”
He smiled. “Mr. Rosenbaum’s daughter who’s interested in family history. Is that your daughter also?”
“Yes,” Tawny answered then realized what she’d said. “I mean, not by blood. I guess you’d call Arielle the daughter of my heart.”
The doctor said, “Sometimes that’s a more powerful connection than DNA. Like between Mr. Rosenbaum and his friend, Smoky.”
At first, the parallel surprised her but then it made perfect sense. “You’re very right, doctor. Thank you for taking the time with us.”
Outside in the parking lot, Tillman was already sitting in the van. After Tawny climbed in, he said, “We’re going to see Gabriel.” His mouth was tight and grim.
“Are you OK?”
“No.”
“Do you want to talk about it?
“No.” He started the engine and pulled out onto the boulevard.
She faced him. “Dr. Jefferson is a good man.”
He scanned the traffic. “He’s not an asshole.”
From the eternally cynical attorney, that was high praise.
She gave up trying to chip away at his armor and sat back for the ride.
As they drove over the Howard Frankland bridge to St. Petersburg, she admired the sparkling water of Tampa Bay. She rolled down the window to inhale the sea air.
And waited.
It was useless to push Tillman to open up before he wanted to. He would, eventually.
When she’d started working for him, long before she ever imagined they’d become lovers, he’d surprised her by confiding details of his mother’s suicide years earlier. He’d recited the events with the same cold, clinical precision he did when he laid out a case in court. But red rimmed his eyes. When he’d reached for her hand, he gripped it so tightly that she had to hide her flinch.
That was the first time she’d realized her arrogant, demanding boss had a human side even though he kept his good heart hidden.
As they drove through the streets of St. Petersburg, Tillman remained silent. Some areas had been hit hard by Irma, where others appeared miraculously untouched. They passed apartments with boarded-up windows and balconies hanging by a thread, yet the next building in line was intact. She noticed an attractive two-story house that looked normal until they turned the corner to find an entire wall missing. Blue plastic tarps billowed in the wind. Splintered lumber poked through ragged clumps of fiberglass insulation.
In the downtown area, historic Spanish buildings with pink stucco walls and red tile roofs appeared undamaged. The solid, old buildings had endured storms before Irma and would, no doubt, survive future hurricanes, too.
On Pinellas Trail, they drove through an industrial area until they finally reached the address Tawny had found online.
The building was a small storefront, sandwiched between a wholesale warehouse and an auto repair shop. Iron bars covered the mirror-tinted window. No way to see inside.
Tillman drove around the block, looking for Gabriel’s black Hummer but it wasn’t on the street. They parked and approached. The only signage was a metal plate that read Sports of Yesteryear, screwed into the block wall beside the wire mesh security door.
Tillman pressed a bell on an intercom box.
A gruff voice crackled through the speaker: “We’re closed. By appointment only.”
Tillman leaned down and rumbled, “We’re here to see Gabriel.” The window glass vibrated. Even when he didn’t raise his voice, his tone still felt like a powerful bass woofer.
No answer.
Tillman glowered at a surveillance camera above the doorway.
A moment later, a buzzer released the lock and they pushed open the door.
Inside, a noisy air conditioner rattled one wall. The showroom was about twenty feet wide and ten feet deep. A glass display case held baseball cards, autographed balls, and old sports programs. A few jerseys and bats hung on the walls. Tawny doubted there was enough inventory to support a business. Something else was going on behind the scenes.
Gabriel emerged through a door from a back room. “Good afternoon.” He smiled at Tawny. “It’s nice to see you again.” Then he faced Tillman with a pleasant, neutral expression.
Tillman removed Smoky’s wallet from his pocket and opened it on the glass counter, showing the driver’s license.
Gabriel stepped closer, studied the wallet without touching it, then looked up again at Tillman. “And this means…?”
“The shirt Smoky was wearing the night he disappeared has been recovered from the swamp behind his house. His blood is on the shirt. Bones with his DNA have also been recovered.” He flipped through the wallet’s inner compartments to display Nyala’s photo.
The brother’s eyes widened the slightest bit. “My sister is not involved in any business between Smoky and me.” He leaned an elbow on the glass counter. “Why are you telling me this?”
Tillman loomed. God, his height still startled Tawny at times and he used the intimidation to his advantage. “I drew up Smoky’s will and I am the executor. I will be filing a petition to have him declared deceas
ed and to open probate. I’m informing you as a courtesy in the event you want to file a creditor’s claim against the estate.”
Gabriel gave a refined chuckle. “There aren’t enough assets in his estate to settle my claim.”
“Then you are out of luck. A dead man can’t pay debts.”
“I don’t want money. I want my property back.”
“What property?”
Gabriel bent low behind the showcase and brought up a leather-bound photo album. He carefully placed it on the counter and paged through it. When he found what he was looking for, he held the album open with both hands. “This.”
Tawny and Tillman reached for their readers.
An eight-by-ten photo showed a closeup of a hand-painted baseball card with an orange background. The face on it was a homely man with a large beak nose and brown hair parted in the middle. He wore a gray shirt with a navy-blue collar, buttoned up to his neck. Lettering across his chest read Pittsburg. Small print below the picture said Wagner, Pittsburg.
Tawny looked to Tillman for a hint.
He studied the photo for several seconds longer. “Honus Wagner. Is this the cigarette card?”
Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Wagner was a prude who didn’t want his name connected with smoking because it set a bad example for young boys. In 1909, Sweet Caporal Cigarettes used his image without permission. He sued, which cut short the run of these cards. The few that survive are very valuable.”
“I heard about a sale for three million,” Tillman said.
“That is correct. Which, you can understand, is why I want my property back.”
Tillman folded his arms. “And you think Smoky had it?”
“I know he did.” Gabriel closed the photo album and folded his hands atop the leather cover. “Smoky used to work for me. He had an eye for choosing memorabilia that would increase in value. He did very well for me for the past decade. I trusted him. I gave him large sums of cash to purchase assets on my behalf.”
“As a straw man,” Tillman interjected.
Gabriel pursed his lips. “I prefer to keep my ownership silent in most investments.” He went on: “I knew his history and about the gambling problem. Still, he had a rare talent. In the beginning, I tested him with only small amounts of cash. He didn’t disappoint me. Gradually, I allowed him to handle more money and high-value assets. We enjoyed some great successes and became close friends, almost like brothers. I foolishly believed he would never betray me. I gave him the combination to my safe where I kept the Honus Wagner card. Even my wife doesn’t have the combination. That tells you the degree of trust I had in Smoky.”
