Returning to the first page of articles, I pulled up today’s story of Poe’s arrest. The headline blared, St. Augustine Archaeologist arrested. The sub-head told the rest of the story: Dr. Jeffrey Poe indicted for murder of Vice Mayor Marrano.
There must be a course in journalism school teaching budding reporters how to dredge up and list every embarrassing incident in a subject’s past no matter how long ago it may have happened. In that fine tradition, the story related Poe’s earlier run-ins with Marrano and noted it wasn’t the first time his temper had landed him in trouble. According to the article, as a sophomore in college, Poe had been arrested and charged with aggravated assault for attacking a classmate.
I knew Poe had a temper, but aggravated assault was a serious charge involving use of a weapon. My mind rebelled at the thought of Poe as a homicidal maniac, but I knew the prosecutor would jump all over the old aggravated assault charge. Anyone who didn’t know the man as I did might conclude from this article that Poe was capable of murder.
I tried to reconcile what I knew about Jeffrey Poe—the man who lovingly nursed his wife during those emotionally draining months of her illness—with the brutal killer who stabbed and mutilated William Marrano. They were not the same man.
I wondered how a reporter for a St. Augustine newspaper gained access to a thirty-year-old police report? If I had to put money on it, I’d bet Kurtis Laurance or someone else in the St. Johns Group leaked it to the reporter. Laurance had the resources to investigate Poe’s background, and the motivation to discredit him.
I printed the newspaper article before shutting down my computer. Sitting at my desk, a picture came to mind of the St. Johns Group in the form of an octopus, slick tentacles worming out in all directions, encircling and suffocating the life out of Jeffrey Poe. Kurtis Laurance’s sticky fingers appeared to be all over this case, and I hoped when it was finally over I didn’t find myself ensnared in their grip.
SIXTEEN
At twenty minutes past three, I turned onto International Golf Parkway. I followed the shadowed stretch of country road for five miles until I came to a contemporary three-story building of white concrete. A sign across the top of the building informed me I’d arrived at the offices of the St. Johns Group.
Landing an appointment with Kurtis Laurance hadn’t been easy. My calls had been passed to a succession of aides whose main job seemed to be to protect the people’s candidate from the people. Frustrated, I asked Erin Marrano to call on my behalf and Laurance finally deigned to speak to me.
“I’m a very busy man,” Laurance told me during that phone call. “How about next week, say Thursday?”
I patiently explained that I needed to see him today. “This might have an impact on the Matanzas Bay project,” I added. His tone immediately changed, and he told me to be at his office at three-thirty.
A half-hour later, I sat in the lobby squirming uncomfortably on a teardrop-shaped chair probably used in medieval torture chambers. Unable to sit any longer, I rose from my seat and pretended to study the framed photographs along the wall. Each one represented a project the St. Johns Group had built throughout the Southeast. I was looking at a photograph of a shopping mall in West Palm Beach when the door next to the receptionist opened and a tall blonde on stiletto heels surveyed the room. Her face, pinched and aloof as if expecting to find a reeking derelict, transformed itself when I turned toward her. She gave me a surprised smile.
“Mr. Mitchell?”
I flashed her the equivalent of an Elevated on my smile-alert system. She returned the smile before extending her hand and saying, “I’m Pamela, Mr. Laurence’s executive assistant. I’m sorry for the wait, but he can see you now.”
We walked to an elevator whose door glided open at her touch. On the third floor, we stepped through the double doors leading into Laurance’s office, a space about the size of a department store in one of his shopping malls. Pamela left me there, closing the doors as she exited.
Laurance sat behind a large executive desk talking on the phone. My attention was immediately drawn to another man in a rumpled dark suit who stood half-turned between me and Laurance, beefy shoulders and thick legs braced to tackle me if I tried anything funny.
With the phone still pressed to his ear, Laurance waved me toward the two chairs at a meeting table across the room. Mr. Rumpled Suit followed as I walked to the chair, positioning his stocky body between us like one of those concrete barriers protecting highway workers from on-coming traffic. He turned his head to stare at me with tiny, hooded eyes the color of watery iced tea bringing to mind an image of a moray eel. Face forward, I now saw a thin scar bisecting his right eyebrow and traversing the corner of his eye. Noting the bulge under his suit coat, I turned back to Laurance who was still talking on the phone.
“Gordon doesn’t bother me. Even if he is the Attorney General, how’s he going to explain his involvement in that casino gambling business?” He cut his eyes at me and abruptly said, “I have someone waiting for me. We’ll talk later.”
Laurance approached me with a fluid, athletic stride. In his late fifties or early sixties, he was tan and lean with close-cropped gray hair. He pulled back his cuff-linked sleeve to reveal a yellow gold Patek Philippe watch. Glancing at it before giving me a smile of perfectly even white teeth and offering his hand, he said, “I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Mitchell, but I’m behind schedule as it is.”
Before he sat he gestured toward the other man. “Meet Lemuel Tallabois, my security chief. Lem is retired from the New Orleans Police and handles all my security needs.”
I nodded to Tallabois who raised a corner of his mouth in a snarky smile. His sideburns were trimmed eye-level in a stark, military cut. Aside from Bourbon Street and beignets, New Orleans was renowned for its corrupt politicians and even more corrupt police. In the wake of Hurricane Katrina, national headlines blazed the news that fifty or sixty police officers were fired for abandoning their posts and stealing, along with a few more serious offenses like beatings and shootings. Lemuel Tallabois may have retired from the New Orleans Police Department, I thought, but probably not of his own accord.
“You may have heard I’m running for governor,” Laurance said, sitting down opposite me. “One of my advisers suggested it would be wise to have someone like Lem to watch over me since there are a lot of crazies out there.” He smiled again and shrugged, as if he didn’t quite buy the sentiment but didn’t have a choice.
“You’re an important public figure, Mr. Laurance, so it makes sense not to take any chances.” I hoped I projected the proper degree of deference. “But rest assured you’re safe with me.” Laurance grinned broadly, apparently appreciating my little joke, but Tallabois was unmoved.
“I’m sure you’re right. Lem, why don’t you take a break and get yourself a cup of coffee while Mr. Mitchell and I chat for a few minutes?”
Tallabois squinted at me, the scarred right eye closing completely at the corner, adding to his eel-like look. “Maybe I should check him out to make sure he’s not packing.” He moved toward me holding out a hand to pat me down.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Laurance said. “Mr. Mitchell looks harmless enough, but I’ll give you a call if I need your help.”
The muscles along Tallabois’ jaw line bunched, and he shot me his creepy stare as a warning before leaving the office.
“Now, what’s this all about, Mr. Mitchell? You said something about the Matanzas Bay project.”
“First of all, let me thank you for seeing me on such short notice. As Mrs. Marrano probably told you, she’s hired me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her husband’s murder.”
Lines appeared on Laurance’s forehead as his smooth face took on an expression of deep sadness. “What a horrible tragedy for Mrs. Marrano and the rest of us. Aside from the loss of a wonderful friend, I hate to see something like this happen in my hometown.”
Laurance was either a very good actor or sincerely moved by Marrano’s
death. Part of his statement surprised me, though. “Your hometown? I thought you were from south Florida.”
“I was born and lived here until I was thirteen when my family moved to south Florida. After high school I attended the University of Miami and stayed in the area while learning the real estate development business.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, adjusting the crease in his pants before continuing.
“After working with a couple of companies, I started my own and took advantage of the explosive growth throughout south Florida. But my heart’s always been here in St. Johns County. That’s why I named my company the St. Johns Group. Later I transferred my main office up here.”
“You still have an office in Miami?” Like most politicians, he enjoyed talking about himself, and I wanted him to keep talking.
“Of course, and one in Atlanta and another in Charlotte. I try to spend as much time here as my schedule allows.” Laurance looked at his watch again to let me know I needed to get back on track.
“You said Mr. Marrano was a good friend of yours.”
“Bill and I developed a close working relationship. I’m happy to say it grew into a deep friendship.” He reached across the table and touched me on the arm with a long, delicate finger. “Everyone who knew Bill felt the same way about him. He exuded charisma and had a sincere love for his community. That’s why the Matanzas Bay project was so important to him.”
“And yet, someone obviously disliked him enough to kill him,” I said.
A subtle change flitted across Laurance’s features and for a moment the compassion and concern he displayed were gone, replaced by what might have been suspicion and an almost animal-like sense of alertness. The look of concern returned so quickly I thought I might have imagined the change.
“I still have a hard time believing it happened,” Laurance said. “Everyone knew Dr. Poe opposed our project, but no one would have guessed he was capable of such a thing.”
“Jeffrey Poe may have been arrested for William Marrano’s murder, but he hasn’t been convicted.”
“Of course not, but I hear the police have a very good case against him.”
“Mrs. Marrano hired me because she doesn’t believe Dr. Poe killed her husband.”
“I’m a staunch supporter of our jurisprudence system, Mr. Mitchell. I’m sure the courts will sort everything out, but Mrs. Marrano acted under the strain of her husband’s murder before hearing all the evidence. When she does, she’ll realize she doesn’t require your services any longer.”
He held my eyes for a second before looking at his watch again. “I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“You obviously think Dr. Poe—”
“It doesn’t make any difference what I think.” He flicked a hand through the air impatiently. “None of this has anything to do with our project. We’ve been charged with converting an old waste dump into a jewel for St. Augustine’s crown. Everyone will be proud of Matanzas Bay when we’re finished.”
“Jeffrey Poe didn’t consider it to be a jewel.”
He snorted. “Poe was obsessive about this development. He was sadly mistaken if he thought he could stop the project by killing Marrano.”
“Maybe the point of killing Marrano was not to halt construction, but to insure it went on,” I said.
“What the hell does that mean?” Laurance blurted out the words before catching himself, but not before a flush of color reddened his cheeks.
I noted his public mask slipping away, if only momentarily.
“Bill Marrano had been in favor of this project since day one. I’m only sorry he won’t be here to see it to completion.” Laurance the politician was back in control, smiling and nodding sympathetically.
I had my note pad on the table and flipped through a few pages as though looking for something. Running a finger down one of the pages, I said, “Its come to my attention Mr. Marrano may have had a change of heart. He called a special meeting for Thursday night and some people thought he planned to reverse his position and either delay or halt the project.”
Something flashed across his face, and I thought I may have hit a nerve.
“There’s absolutely no truth to that,” Laurance said, his voice even and confiding. “Marrano knew this project would benefit St. Augustine. He couldn’t wait to get it underway. The special meeting wasn’t called because he’d changed his mind.”
“How much would you stand to lose if this project got shelved?”
All pretenses of affability were suddenly dropped, and Laurance glared at me with narrowed eyes and open hostility.
“Don’t think I don’t know where you’re getting this crap. It’s Henderson. The old has-been likes to stick his rummy nose in everybody’s business. He plays the part of the village shaman and expects everyone to go along with his game.”
I didn’t reply.
“Henderson and Poe both tried to stop Matanzas Bay. At least Poe was man enough to go public and do it openly. Let me give you some free advice, Mitchell. Take another look at your poet friend. I mean a good look. He’s not the noble creature everyone seems to think he is.”
“Are you saying Henderson was involved in Mr. Marrano’s death?”
“You’re obviously hard of hearing. I said that he’s not the noble creature everyone seems to think he is. If that means he also has blood on his hands …” He let the sentence trail off, holding up both hands as though weighing the implications of his statement. “Maybe the police will get around to questioning him, but since you’re a detective, why don’t you do your job.”
He glared at me a moment before standing. I guessed our meeting was over.
“I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work now.” Taking a few steps toward the office door, he called, “Lem.”
Tallabois entered immediately, and I wondered if he had his ear pressed against the door, waiting to be summoned. The security chief’s right hand hung in the air mid-way toward his holster as though expecting trouble, his moray eel eyes searching the room.
“Mr. Mitchell is finished here. Will you be kind enough to see him out?”
Laurance returned to his desk, and Tallabois gripped my upper arm, pushing me toward the door. I spun around, yanking my arm from his grip and stared into the ruined face of Lemuel Tallabois.
“Thanks, but I think I can find my own way out.”
Tallabois sneered and whispered hoarsely, “Watch your ass, pretty boy. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”
SEVENTEEN
Eighteen minutes later I turned off Ponce de Leon Boulevard into the parking lot of the downtown branch of the St. Johns County Public Library. During the ride, I reviewed my interview with Laurance, searching for any clues or discrepancies in his story. He had raised a lot of new questions, but now my head returned to the county jail and Jeffrey Poe.
Wannaker’s news about Eleanor Lawson remembering the Saturday night raccoon incident had pulled Poe out of his gloomy mood. I had my doubts the old woman’s testimony would offset the grisly evidence the police found in Poe’s storage shed. I wondered what the State Attorney had told Wannaker this morning, which was why I asked the elderly Asian woman behind the reference desk for a St. Augustine telephone directory.
Wannaker struck me as one of those attorneys who not only had a full page ad in the yellow pages, but probably advertised on TV as much as the beer companies. I flipped to the section marked Attorneys and wasn’t disappointed to find a full page ad with the bold headline, Your Hometown Criminal Defense Attorney and Wannaker’s stern visage below it. I noted the phone number and address in my notebook and started to leave when the book stacks caught my eye.
Among compilations of the works of James Dickey, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Sylvia Plath, and Nikki Giovanni, I found four volumes by Clayton Ford Henderson—Trembling Vision, A Flash of Silence, Waiting for the Other Shoe, and Dusty Autumn Daydreams.
A friend who wrote poetry when she wasn’t earning a living as a freelance journalist, onc
e told me very few poets made any money selling books of poetry. Henderson must be the rare exception since he purchased a residence in St. Augustine’s historic district and remodeled it top to bottom.
I pulled A Flash of Silence from the shelf and studied the slim book wrapped in a muted teal dust jacket. On the back cover, Henderson stared out at me in a three-quarter page black and white photograph probably taken twenty-five years ago. I thumbed through the pages until I came across the title poem and read the first stanza.
A Flash of Silence
Last night’s Bordeaux was a teasing
pinch on our tongues,
candles a veil of light that dulled
truth we knew would come.
In the hearth fire rose, a wall
of flames that kindled longing.
Hope drifted away like ashes.
I left Mr. Henderson and his ashes on the shelf and returned to my car, arriving at Wannaker’s office in time to see him striding toward a black Cadillac Escalade, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie askew. He carried a folded newspaper instead of his expensive brief case.
“Mr. Wannaker, may I speak to you for a minute?”
He gave me a baleful look. “You’re like a bad penny, Mitchell. If you weren’t Jeffrey’s friend, I’d tell you to make an appointment like everyone else, but …” He shrugged and I interpreted it to mean he’d break his rigid policies and condescend to a minute’s unbilled conversation.
“What’s happening with Poe’s case? Have you spoken to the State Attorney yet?”
Shaking his head, he said, “Not good news. I was just going down the street for a bite to eat. Come along and I’ll fill you in.”
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