by Amy Vansant
Seamus scratched his beard and winked at Charlotte, clearly amused to be scolded by his nephew. “Maybe.”
Seamus had been crashing at Declan’s for months since returning from Miami, where he’d served as some sort of cops’ snitch. She wasn’t sure about the details—nothing Seamus said was ever completely the truth anyway—but he’d helped her earn her detective’s license and was always in a charming mood, so she let slide his embellishments and omissions.
Charlotte scowled at Seamus’s bloodshot eyes. “Everything okay? You look a little rough.”
Seamus shrugged. “That was Jackie on the horn. She thinks someone is messing with her club.”
“What club?”
“Her underground disco for geezers—Slipped Disc’o.”
Charlotte laughed. “Jackie owns that secret old people club? I’ve heard rumors about one around the Port but I never dreamed Jackie owned it.”
“Some detective you are,” said Declan.
“Very funny.”
Seamus grinned. “Quite a perk for your girlfriend to have her own bar, eh?”
Charlotte suddenly felt a little wounded. “Why did she keep it a secret from me?”
“She’s tried to keep it a secret from the Pineapple Port crew. Doesn’t want her neighbors looking down on her—what with her husband and all.”
“Why would people look—” Charlotte stopped, realizing there were plenty of Pineapple Port residents who’d think it improper for Jackie to own a disco. The fact that Jackie’s deceased husband had been a notorious slum lord didn’t help. Keeping her disco a secret from the neighbors also saved her from having customers so close to home. They’d be clucking their tongues about the disco on Monday and hitting her up for coupons on Friday.
Jackie was a smart lady.
Charlotte waved away the rest of her sentence. “Never mind. I totally get it. What do you mean she thinks someone is messing with her?”
“Some wanker left a dead skunk on her doorstep about the same time some guys showed up asking to buy the place. She thinks someone is trying to muscle her into sellin’.”
“Oh no. What do you think?”
Seamus shrugged. “She’s got a bouncer the size of an oak tree, but he’s got the flu. That’s why I look like the devil. I was up all night playin’ bouncer. That was her on the phone telling me two more men stopped by and made her an offer.”
“And she doesn’t want to sell?”
“No. The whole affair has made her jumpy. I promised I’d go back out and see her.” He squinted at his nephew. “How’d you like a little bouncer work tonight?”
Declan grimaced. “You think you need help?”
Seamus shrugged again and sucked on his tooth with his tongue until the suction gave way with a snap.
Declan spent another moment awaiting a definitive answer and then gave in. “Sure. I’ll swing by when we get back.”
Seamus grinned and slapped his nephew on the shoulder as Declan headed inside to change.
Charlotte crossed her arms against her chest and prepared to make small talk with a middle-aged man in his boxers for a few minutes.
“Did Jackie tell Frank about these threats?”
Seamus tilted his head forward and peered from beneath his brow. “Nah. Sheriff Frank doesn’t know about the club. Let’s keep it that way for now.”
Charlotte nodded. Duh. If the rumors she’d heard were true, Jackie’s disco wasn’t exactly legal. She’d heard this mysterious club referred to as an underground dance hall for the fifty-five and over crowd, complete with illegal poker games in the back. Sheriff Frank was a good guy and Darla’s husband, but he did like to play things by the book. Best to keep him in the dark as long as possible.
“Does Jackie know who these men are?”
“Call themselves businessmen but from her description they sound more like thugs. I haven’t laid eyes on them yet. Probably want to turn the place into a teenage drug den or sometin’. I’ll take care of it, but I’d like your man’s help if you don’t mind.”
In truth, Charlotte didn’t love the idea of Declan putting himself in danger, but she knew he wouldn’t stand by and leave everything to his aging uncle.
“I’m sure he’s happy to help. I’ll come too. Maybe I can uncover something about who’s bullying her.”
Seamus grinned “Two private dicks and some muscle. We’ll take care of this in no time.”
“Please don’t call me a private dick.”
“Sorry, true, I’m more of a public dick myself.”
Charlotte snorted a laugh.
Declan reappeared in walking shorts and a polo shirt that spilled neatly from the tops of his impressive pecs. He swam every day in a lap pool behind his home and while Charlotte wasn’t sure why he worked out so hard, she wasn’t complaining.
“I ditched the trunks. I imagine we’ll be skipping the beach in order to get to Jackie’s?”
Charlotte smiled. “You know me so well. Maybe we’ll grab some lunch though.”
Declan slapped his uncle on the back. “Later old man.”
Seamus winced and scowled. “I’ll old man you.”
Declan and Charlotte drove to the beach and parked on the street outside Ryan Finnegan’s condo. Round and white, Charlotte had to agree his building did conform to Penny’s idea of a “wedding cake.” There didn’t seem to be anything cheap about it though—it had a manned gate blocking their entry to the parking lot.
They exited the car and Charlotte stood with her hands on her hips, chewing on her lip as she stared at the guard gate. She glanced at Declan and his shoulders slumped a little.
“Let me guess, you want me to distract the guard while you slip inside.”
She smiled. “It’s almost scary how well you know me now.”
“Scary’s the word for it, alright.”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll buy lunch.”
He sighed. “Deal.”
Declan approached the gate and struck up a conversation with the woman inside the booth while Charlotte slipped by and jogged to the front door of the building. She tugged on the handle.
Locked.
A moment before she could start hitting random intercom buttons hoping to find someone who would buzz her in, a man left the lobby. She grabbed the door and smiled as he passed, to appear as though he’d saved her time spent fishing for her key. He nodded and continued on his way.
She entered the 90s Tuscan-styled lobby and wandered to a small, unattended mail room in the back. Slipping inside, she found a roster of tenants and trained down the list until she spotted Ryan’s name and apartment number.
Bingo.
Charlotte took the elevator to the sixth floor and followed the signs to condo six hundred and one.
The stark white door of Ryan’s condo featured none of the decorations displayed by some of his neighbors. No brass eagle knocker, no shell wreath, no flip-flop door mat.
She knocked.
No answer. A window in the thick cement wall beside the door had the blinds open, so she stood on her toes and peered inside.
Even from her limited view, she could tell Ryan’s main living area hadn’t been tidied in a while. Two of the dining room chairs lay on their sides. On the table, a glass had spilled, bleeding what looked like a pool of orange juice across the table top. Plate shards scattered across a faux wood tile floor.
Not good.
That’s what we in the business like to call “signs of a struggle.”
She didn’t have to be a detective to know signs of a struggle didn’t bode well for Ryan.
Charlotte retrieved her phone from her pocket and called Sheriff Frank. His voice barked into the line.
“Frank here.”
Charlotte grimaced. She wasn’t sure why she ever thought she’d catch Frank in a cheery mood. “You sound agitated.”
“Aaah, some yahoo took a dump in a hotel pool and now he’s running around with his shorts in his hand, waving them around li
ke a victory flag.”
“Alcohol involved?”
“Boy, you really are a detective now, aren’t you?”
She giggled. “Well, I hate to bother you when you’re in the middle of serious police business, but I need a favor.”
“Great. Hit me. Anything to keep from watching this ding dong bounce around this pool.”
“Literally.”
Frank grunted and Charlotte continued.
“Remember Gloria Abernathy? She moved from the neighborhood a few months ago?”
“Little lady. Sort of permanently shocked in the eye department?”
“Right. She hired me to find a man she thought went missing. I’m at his apartment now, and there are clear signs of a struggle.”
“Let me guess, you pulled a Darla getting in there?”
Charlotte smirked. Frank’s wife Darla had taught her how to pick locks. She’d even gifted her with her first lock-picking kit. Seems Darla had spent some time with some questionable people before marrying the local heat.
Charlotte felt relieved she didn’t need to lie to Frank about how she’d come upon her information. For once.
“No, I restrained myself. Just peeked through a window. But that’s why I’m calling you. He’s not answering the door and, as far as I know, he could be in there unconscious on the floor or something. I hate to get the police over here for nothing...could be he just had a wild party and is passed out on his bed.”
“I’ll swing by. What’s the address?”
“That’s the other thing, I’m out of your jurisdiction. I’m at the beach.”
“So... Did you call me to ask for my permission to pick his lock?”
“Pretty much. And to see if you had any words of wisdom before I check things out.”
“And if I say no, are you going to do it anyway?”
“Yes. But I’ll feel better about it with your blessing. Should I be swept into anything dicey, you can honestly state I discovered the scene and didn’t cause it.”
“I don’t know that. And you think I’ll take the stand and tell a judge I told you to pick a man’s lock?”
“Good point.”
Frank sniffed. “Right. Well, I guess we’re through here then.”
“Great. No words of wisdom?
“Not anything you don’t already know. Don’t touch anything. Don’t get yourself killed.”
“Ooh, that’s a good one. I’ll write that one down...”
Frank hung up, but she thought she heard him chuckle before going.
Charlotte put her phone back in her pocket and pulled out her lock picks. The lock was old and gave way immediately. She pushed open the door.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
She tiptoed past the mess and poked her head into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The view of the gulf from the balcony was gorgeous. On the sofa table sat a photograph of a young man smiling. His pose smacked of some sort of corporate headshot. She guessed that was Craig, Ryan’s deceased son.
If it wasn’t, Gloria was really barking up the wrong tree.
But for the mess at the table, everything seemed to be where it should be, though the décor confirmed the apartment as a bachelor’s. Black leather sofa. Enormous television.
No sign of Ryan Finnegan.
She took a moment to study the mess in the dining room. The thin layer of orange juice had dried into a shiny, sticky armor, though some of the liquid in the glass was still just that. Liquid. The broken shards of plate on the ground had dried egg stuck to it. She guessed that the mess had been that way for a few days.
Charlotte hadn’t found Ryan dead. That was a step in the right direction. But she hadn’t found any sign that he’d left peacefully either.
She exited and locked the door behind her.
Outside, she walked past the gate with no particular concern. Condo gatekeepers didn’t care who left.
She found Declan waiting for her next to his car.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Sasha there in the booth says it’s going to rain later today, she saw a Maserati earlier which she someday hopes to own, and her brother washes cars, like for reals. I have his card.”
“Excellent. I’ll be sure to call the next time I need my Maserati waxed.”
“Did you find who you’re looking for?”
She shook her head. “It looks like he left in a real hurry and someone might have helped him along.”
“Was there blood?”
She laughed. “You’re so dramatic. You know not everything I investigate involves blood.”
“No blood? Yeesh. You can bore me with the details at lunch.”
Her gaze drifted across the street to an open-air restaurant called Shark Town Tiki Bar. The establishment was dark and dingy and, but for the name, didn’t deserve to be so close to the ocean.
“Let’s eat over there.”
Declan cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” He paused and Charlotte watched as his surprised expression morphed into one of suspicion. “Ah. You have a hunch your guy spent some time there.”
“I do. It’s at his doorstep.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
They crossed the street and entered the bar. The yellowing polyurethane bar top trapped a sea of shells and beer caps beneath it, like a beach-bum dinosaur’s DNA sealed in amber. Charlotte sat and lifted her hands in the air as the sticky surfaces threatened to permanently claim her flesh. At the opposite end of the long bar, an older woman with a platinum helmet of hair sat drinking a pink cocktail. The bartender, a pudgy man in his mid-forties wearing a parrot-patterned short sleeve shirt, approached without smiling.
“What can I getcha?”
Charlotte forced a smile as her gaze swept over a row of cheesy, beach-and-bikini-based advertisements behind the bar. “Corona light?”
The bartender nodded to Declan, who wore the same unconvincing smile Charlotte imagined she’d projected.
“Same.”
With a nod, the bartender walked in the direction of the platinum blonde to grab the beers.
Charlotte leaned toward Declan and whispered. “You order a bottled beer because you’re afraid to use the glasses in this joint?”
He answered without changing his expression. “Yep. You?”
“Yep. Want to order some sushi?”
He laughed.
The bartender returned with two Coronas and Charlotte spoke before he could lumber away.
“We were looking for my uncle and thought he might be here. Ryan Finnegan. Do you know him?”
The blonde woman’s head swiveled. “Ryan’s your uncle?”
Charlotte nodded. “You know him?”
The woman flicked out a crimson tipped index finger like a switch blade and poked it in Charlotte’s direction. “You tell that bastard where to go for me.”
Charlotte heard Declan mumble, “Oh boy,” behind her.
“Do you know where my uncle is? He was supposed to be here but we knocked on his door and he didn’t answer.”
The woman scowled so tightly it was as if all her features had scurried into the center of her face. “He was supposed to meet me, too. Maybe I shouldn’t be so offended seeing as he stood up his own niece.” She laughed bitterly to herself.
“He was supposed to meet you today?”
“A week ago.”
Charlotte had the passing thought that the woman looked like she’d been sitting there waiting for a week.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “The last time I saw him he was sneaking around my bedroom picking his clothes up off the floor, thinking I was asleep.”
“About a week ago?”
“Yeah. He forgot his phone. I told Pete to tell him I’d meet him here to give it to him. I couldn’t call him ‘cuz—”
“You had his phone. Who’s Pete?”
She nodded toward the bartender.
“I’m Pete,” he said,
digging in his ear with his middle finger.
“This is where we hooked up, so I thought Pete could relay the message.” The woman said relay the message as if she were translating a fancy foreign phrase.
Charlotte turned to the bartender. “You know Ryan?”
He shrugged. “He comes in a couple times a week for a rum and Coke. I don’t know him other than he hates flat Coke. Got a real stick up his butt about flat Coke.”
Charlotte nodded. Fascinating factoid, but she doubted Ryan’s distaste for flat Coke would blow the case wide open.
“So, neither of you have seen him for a week?”
Pete nodded. “’Bout that. I told him Sally had his phone. He told me to tell her he’d meet her here.”
“And he never showed.”
Sally leaned down to grab her purse, nearly toppling from her bar stool as she stooped. She aborted the mission and took a moment to steady herself, before fishing for the large bag’s handles with her sandal-clad foot. She hooked the straps with her toes and lifted the bag high enough off the ground to grab it. Probing inside, she produced a cell phone and slid it down the bar toward Charlotte. It went wildly left, but Pete caught it.
“There’s his stinkin’ phone. If you see him, tell him we’re through.”
Pete handed Charlotte the phone and she pushed a few buttons.
“What kind of phone is that?” asked Declan, peering over her shoulder.
“Old. Very old. And very dead.”
“Where are you going to find a charger? Do you need to go back to his apartment?”
Charlotte chuckled. “Pineapple Port is a retirement community. If I can’t find a charger for this there, it doesn’t exist.”
Chapter Nine
Mariska pulled open her kitchen drawer, revealing a sea of black phone charger cords. A few had plugs large enough to serve as doorstops.
“One of these should work,” said Mariska.
Charlotte tried four before she found a strange gap-toothed prong that fit Ryan’s phone perfectly. “That’ll do it. I knew as soon as I saw his phone you’d have something that worked.”
“It isn’t the same as mine.”
“No, but it was personally signed by Alexander Graham Bell so I knew I had a shot.” Charlotte glanced at Mariska’s own ancient flip-phone and Mariska tucked it to her chest protectively.
