Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay

by Francis, Parker

  “The man does have a few rough edges.”

  “True, but don’t judge him too harshly. He’s had a tough time of it recently. His wife is in a cancer ward in Baton Rouge, and he’s been spending every cent I pay him on her medical care. I feel for him, but it’s time to move on. I’m hiring another security chief and you’re the man I want.”

  Blame my head trauma, but I never saw it coming. “Me?”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Quint. I told you I always look for professionals.”

  I could think of a dozen reasons why he had tagged the wrong man. “I’m flattered, but as governor you’ll have your pick of anyone in the Highway Patrol or the FDLE.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been a private businessman all my life and I want someone without any ties to the state bureaucracy. Someone who understands the way business works, as well as having a good head for security and investigation.”

  It seemed to make sense when he explained it that way, but still I asked, “Why me? There are probably a hundred people within fifty miles of here with better resumes.”

  “Don’t be so modest.” He pulled another folder from the stack and opened it. Inside were a dozen or so sheets of paper and he lifted out the first document. “Quinton Logan Mitchell, you actually have a very impressive track record. Good family background. Good education. You achieved Master-at-Arms ranking in the Navy, and your service during the first Gulf War was exemplary. Some people might even call you a hero.”

  He was referring to the commendation I received for my part in putting down a prison rebellion by Republican Guard soldiers that left three people dead.

  “You did solid work with the DEA before forming your own investigation business. You have hands on experience with law enforcement and private enterprise. My sources tell me you are a well-respected professional in your field.” He set the report on the table between us and folded his hands on top of it.

  “Admit it; you’re head and shoulders above Lem Tallabois. Your expertise is wasted as a private investigator. With me, you’ll have a much larger stage.”

  “Politics has never been my game.”

  “I’m not talking about politics. You’ll be point man for all security operations for me as governor, and for the St. Johns Group. You’ll tell the Highway Patrol what to do as it relates to my protection, and when I leave office you continue as security head for my company. How does that sound?”

  Serena’s words rushed through my head. I don’t want to worry about whether someone is going to kill you every time you go to work. If I wanted it, Kurtis Laurance was offering me the perfect solution.

  “This is all a bit overwhelming, and totally unexpected.”

  “I consider myself a good judge of people and even though we didn’t get off on the right foot at our first meeting, I believe you’re the man for the job.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Maybe this will help you make up your mind. I won’t embarrass you by asking what your annual take home might be as a private investigator, but I’m offering you a starting salary of two hundred thousand dollars.”

  I attempted to get my head around the number of zeros. “Per year?”

  “Yes, of course.” He smiled at my incredulousness before turning serious. “Here’s the thing, though. I’m flying to Tallahassee in the morning for a planning session with party officials before my campaign swing starts on Monday. We’ll be taking the corporate jet, and I wanted you to come along if possible. You’ll have the opportunity to meet some of my campaign advisors and give me your impressions. Of course, I’d also like you to travel with me Monday for my campaign swing.”

  “I don’t know, I have a pretty full plate right now.”

  “It’s not a deal breaker, by any means. I know this has all been sudden and you have to get your other affairs in order.”

  “I don’t see how I can drop everything and—”

  “That’s perfectly understandable, but I do want your answer by nine tonight.” He tapped his index finger on the folder. “I need to have everything in order before we start, and knowing you’re on my team will put my mind to rest. Of course, if your answer is no I’ll have to make alternate plans.”

  He gave me his cell phone number and I promised to call. As he walked me toward the door, one hand on my shoulder, he asked, “By-the-way, did you ever take a look at the property around my Matanzas Bay development?”

  “As a matter-of-fact, I did. Were you referring to the large vacant lot and run down stores adjoining the project?”

  “That’s right. Would you care to guess who owns both of those parcels?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter now, but they belonged to Henderson.”

  “Henderson?” The codicil that mysteriously appeared in my mail itemized two parcels of real estate along with a million dollars as a bequest to Erin Marrano.

  “Yes, Henderson owns, or I should say owned, both of those parcels. More than four acres between the two parcels. They’d fit nicely into the second stage of development.”

  “Didn’t you try to purchase them?”

  “Of course. My real estate people offered him a fair price.”

  “I guess he didn’t take you up on your offer?”

  “Henderson laughed at us and said it was worth five times what we’d offered. He was jockeying for more money, so I met with him personally. Increased the offer to five hundred thousand dollars. Very generous, I thought.”

  “He didn’t take it.”

  “No, he wanted a million-and-a-half dollars. When I refused, he told me he would do his best to stop Matanzas Bay from getting built. Shortly afterwards, Poe began ranting about the project at the city commission meetings.”

  It wasn’t much of a stretch to believe Henderson had fueled Poe’s passions and caused him to go public with his feelings.

  “Anyway, Henderson was only playing for time, hoping to keep me distracted until I increased my offer.”

  “And would you? Increase the offer?”

  After a long pause, he finally said, “Yes. I spoke with Bill Marrano a few days before he was killed and told him I’d be willing to go as high as one million dollars.”

  “What did Marrano say?”

  “He thought it was too much money.”

  “Huh.”

  “Bill suggested another more cost-efficient route. Eminent domain.” Laurance paused for a few beats while I processed the information. “I couldn’t say anything when you mentioned you’d heard Bill had called a special meeting of the city commission. You thought it was because he’d changed his mind about Matanzas Bay.”

  “So, the meeting was to—”

  “That’s right. We were going to begin legal proceedings to acquire Henderson’s property. Obviously, he didn’t want to alert Henderson by advertising his intentions. After Bill’s murder, Mayor Cameron decided to put it off until later.”

  Now I wondered where Henderson picked up the story about Marrano changing his mind.

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” Laurance said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If Henderson hadn’t taken that plunge off the top of the lighthouse, and the city decided not to invoke eminent domain, he probably could have pushed me to a million dollars. But now I should be able to snap up that property for even less than my original offer.”

  FORTY

  Back at my apartment, I walked Bogie and fed both animals before pulling a handful of ice cubes from the freezer and dropping them into a freezer bag. Pressing the ice pack against my throbbing head with one hand, I grabbed a beer with the other and walked out to the balcony hoping to make some sense of the last few hours.

  This day had not turned out the way I thought it would. Hell, the entire week was like something out of the Wizard of Oz. The only things missing were the flying monkeys, and there was still time for them to show up. A rumble of thunder rolled over the traffic sounds below me on First Street. I dropped into
a rocker to work my way through Laurance’s surprising offer.

  Here I was in the middle of a murder case. Perhaps two murders if Henderson’s death wasn’t a suicide, and maybe three if Buck Marrano hadn’t come to my rescue. Of course, I wouldn’t be sitting here musing over the perplexities of life and death if the gators were a bit faster. If all of this wasn’t confusing enough, out of the blue Kurtis Laurance announces he wants me on his team. Another coincidence? Maybe I’m becoming too cynical for my own good.

  Laurance definitely made a poor decision by hiring Tallabois. It didn’t take a genius to see the ex-cop was out of his league for such a high profile position. What about me? I spent most of my time tracking down deadbeats and investigating white collar criminals. Did I honestly think I could slip into the big money corporate world as head of security for a billion-dollar company?

  Yes, I guess I did. But was that what I wanted? I’d always been the independent type. The Navy had more than its share of rules and regulations, but the DEA was a bureaucratic nightmare. I left to become my own boss. I decided what cases to accept and when to take a day off to volunteer with Poe’s archaeological surveys. On the flip side, I hated the constant pressure to keep the business afloat, dealing with unsavory clients, and the boredom of what was often no more challenging than a clerk’s job. And I wasn’t forgetting my recent brush with death.

  There’s an old joke about a circus worker who cleans up after the elephants and constantly complains about his nasty job. When he’s asked why he doesn’t quit and find another job, he responds with, what, and leave show business? Maybe I was like that circus worker.

  Laurance’s offer had a lot of appeal, but I couldn’t drop everything and climb aboard his jet in the morning. I owed it to Poe and Erin Marrano to see this case to the end. My internal alarm system told me I was close. But close to what? Close to who? If I forced myself to write a progress report it would be filled with gaping holes and wild speculation.

  I chugged the last swallow of beer and set the bottle down. Spatters of rain pelted the nearly empty sidewalks of First Street. I looked at my watch. 7:10. Less than two hours before I had to call Laurance and give him my answer.

  My intentions were to drink at least one more beer while I pondered the pros and cons of hitching up with Florida’s next governor. Before I could return for a second bottle, my phone rang.

  “Hello, Jack,” I answered after checking the Caller ID. “Did you dig up anything else?”

  “Your hunch was right, sailor,” Fuller said in his Mississippi accent. I listened carefully as he gave me his report. I followed up with a few questions before thanking him for his efforts.

  I pulled my spare .38 from the top shelf of my closet. Fifteen minutes later I was on my way back to St. Augustine.

  ***

  Rain peppered my windshield with fat, oily drops that flattened and scurried to the side like roaches hiding from the light. The weather forecast called for the storm to break later, but I saw no sign of a let-up as I drove along A1A.

  I used my handkerchief to clear the condensation accumulating on the inside of my windshield. The sky looked as bruised as my face. Thunder rumbled in from the south as the rain fell even harder.

  Fuller’s research had uncovered a missing piece to the puzzle, and in my head I heard the sweet sound of the silver ball hitting its target. Still, there were questions to be answered and motives deciphered. But the more I thought about it, the more sense it made—in a perverted sort of way.

  Some of the pieces would have to wait until later, but now I saw how I’d been led astray by Marrano’s and Poe’s feud over the condo and hotel project.

  I stopped at the traffic signal on San Marco, the lights from the merry-go-round across the street glowing lurid and spectral through my rain-streaked windshield. While I waited for the light to change, I called the St. Augustine Police Department and asked for Sergeant Marrano.

  “I’m sorry,” a nasally voice answered, “but he’s on his dinner break. Do you want his voice mail?”

  “Can you give me his cell phone number?”

  “No, we can’t give out that information.”

  I thought about asking for Horgan, but after Marrano saved my life I felt he should be the first one to know who killed his brother. I left him a message telling him I was on my way to Henderson’s house, and to call me as soon as possible.

  If I’d known what the evening had in store for me, I would have waited for Lt. Marrano to call.

  ***

  Outside lights shimmered through the pouring rain, but the interior of Henderson’s house was dark. I sat in my car for a moment trying to decide what to do. Should I wait for Marrano to call me back or take some action on my own? Finally, I grabbed the .38 and stuck it into my waistband under my water-repellent windbreaker. Running through the rain to the welcome relief of the overhang, I banged on the door, hollering, “Jarrod, its Quint.”

  No answer.

  I twisted the door handle. Locked. I continued knocking and calling for Watts. Either he wasn’t home or didn’t want company. Back in my car, I watched the house for a minute or two more. Rain dripped from my body, blending with my sweat and soaking the seat. I stared at the console clock unsure of what to do next, willing Buck Marrano to call. This was stupid. Buck had been clinging to me like a cold sore for the past week, but when I needed him most he goes AWOL.

  Patience had never been my strong suit. I kept telling myself a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt and I should sit tight. Acting rashly could have deadly consequences. Let the police handle it. Good advice, but someone else might be in danger if I did nothing.

  I flipped open my phone and tapped in Erin Marrano’s number. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

  “Come on. You have to be home on this gawd-awful night,” I muttered to myself. After the fourth ring, I heard the hand-set fumbled as though she may have dropped it. I waited for Erin to say ‘hello’ and apologize for dropping the phone, but instead heard a muffled scream before the line abruptly went dead.

  In my mind, I pictured Erin Marrano, her scorching blue eyes now cauterized with fear. I closed the phone and dropped it on the seat between my legs so I could grab it quickly if Marrano called. I cranked up the Toyota and turned off onto King by the statue of Ponce de Leon. There I joined a procession of cars crawling along Avenida Menendez.

  I cursed the traffic and winced as a flash of lightning illuminated the Bayfront, swabbing a pair of sailboats anchored near the bridge with a ghostly light. When I saw a slight break in the traffic, I took a chance and swerved around two cars in front of me. Ignoring the angry gestures and honking horns, I fishtailed onto Myrtle Street and then Magnolia.

  The street was dark and overhead the huge oak branches seemed to flail out at each other forming a shadowy and forbidding canopy. Closing on her house, I spotted a dirty brown pick-up truck backed into Erin Marrano’s driveway, driver’s door open, lights on. Fifty feet up the street, my headlights swept across Lem Tallabois’ car parked beneath the drooping branches of a weeping willow. Dark splotches stippled the windshield making it difficult to see into the front seat, but I saw the outline of a man and wondered why Laurance’s security chief was parked in front of Erin Marrano’s house.

  Two people moved briskly from the house to the truck. I was still half a block away, but recognized one of the figures as Erin. The other person had his back to me as he dragged her toward the pick-up and pushed her into the front seat. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but there was no doubt it was Jarrod Watts—Erin’s twin brother.

  Erin kicked him and scrambled partly out of the vehicle. Screeching to a stop directly behind the truck, I saw Watts punch Erin in the face. She staggered and he pushed her back inside the pick-up and slammed the door. He ran around to the driver’s side just as I jumped out to intercept him.

  “Watts,” I yelled, grabbing at him with my right hand. My fingers grazed his rock-hard shoulder searching for something to hold onto.
Leaning into the truck, already off balance, I didn’t expect his next move. Instead of pushing me away, Watts grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward as he accelerated. I lost my balance, slipping on the wet driveway and bouncing off the side of the truck.

  Watts twisted the steering wheel to the right onto Erin’s front lawn. The truck’s rear wheels swerved toward my head. I rolled away and jumped to my feet watching the pick-up lurch crazily across Erin’s front yard, tires carving twin furrows in the St. Augustine grass as he bounced over the curb and onto the street, barely missing Tallabois’ Buick.

  He turned toward me briefly as he roared away, and in the glare of my headlights I saw the finely chiseled features of Jarrod Watts smiling at me.

  FORTY-ONE

  The tires on Watt’s truck spun and squealed as he drove south on Magnolia toward the Myrtle Street intersection. I raced to my car and followed the glow of the retreating taillights. The truck’s brake lights flickered momentarily at the stop sign before fishtailing around the corner onto San Marco.

  A near-by street lamp cast a yellowish pallor over the scene, and as I passed the Buick on my left, I confirmed that Tallabois was inside the vehicle. I also recognized the spatter across his windshield as blood. The dirty red specks matched the thin trickle flowing from the neat hole in his forehead.

  It was too late to help Tallabois but not Erin. Turning the corner, I spotted the pick-up truck on San Marco. Together, we headed east over the Bridge of Lions and onto Anastasia Boulevard where the traffic thinned considerably.

  Watts increased his speed and I accelerated to keep him in sight. He cranked a hard left at State Road 312 where the road squeezed from four lanes to two. We swept through St. Augustine Beach past restaurants, motels, banks and condominiums.

  Surprised I hadn’t heard from Buck Marrano yet, I reached for my cell phone in the pocket between the seats where I normally kept it. When I couldn’t find it, I scraped my hand across the passenger seat, keeping one eye on the road. Then I remembered dropping it between my legs after I called Erin’s house. I boosted my butt off the seat, and felt beneath me. Nothing but damp fabric. My eyes raked the floor before I figured it out. When I jumped out of the car to stop Watts, I must have dropped the phone, and now it was lying in a puddle in the street.