by S. D. Thames
“I’ve never been married, but I’ve lost people close to me. It’s not easy. All you can do is remember why you loved them.”
Tears emerged under her glasses. “How did you know Don?”
“I really didn’t know him that well. I met him working on this case. I’m a private investigator. We talked twice.”
“You must have made quite an impression on him.”
I hadn’t realized how desperate Don was, and how alone. “I think he was out of people to trust.”
Her crying reached a crescendo, and then she caught her breath. “I should have known something like his was going to happen.”
“Why?”
“He just hasn’t been himself lately.”
“I know this is sudden and hard for you, but the quicker we act, the more likely it is we can get this straightened out. Can you explain to me how Don hadn’t been acting like himself?”
She tried drying her eyes with the napkin. “Well, he hadn’t been sleeping as much. He’d been on edge a lot.”
“From what I hear, Don had a bit of a… habit?” I rubbed my nose.
She nodded. “A little bit. But honestly, it seemed like he was doing less recently. You’d have to know Don. He only did that stuff when the times were good. If they were bad, he might drink, but he was more likely to do nothing but sulk until he came up with a plan.”
“Was Don having financial problems?”
She nodded again. “He took a beating a few years ago, invested in a lot of real estate in 2006 and ’07 that never even got off the ground. It’s still catching up with him.”
I glanced around. The food court was filling up quickly, especially for breakfast time. “How else was he acting strange?”
Her face twisted with concentration. “He started taking a lot of walks.”
“That’s strange?”
“It is for Don. He hates the heat. But he’d take like twenty minute walks several times a day, even at odd hours of the night.”
“Was he meeting someone?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I tried following him once. I had to keep my distance, and I lost him for a minute, but it looked like he really was just walking a loop.” A flash of resentment suddenly passed over her. “Why do you care? He’s dead. Aren’t they just going to pin all of this on him?”
“You mean Scalzo? You know about that?”
“Of course I do.”
“I have my doubts that Don killed Chad Scalzo. And let’s just say I want the truth to come out.” I turned my head and pointed to my bandage. “Besides, whoever did it tried to kill me, too, and I want to know who that is.”
“How can I help you?” she asked with resignation.
“How about we start with last night? When the police came.”
She managed to take a bite of her salad and nodded. “I guess Don was with you, and they showed up. Said they had a search warrant.”
“Did they ask if Don was home?”
“No, they seemed not to care.”
They probably knew he was drinking with me. “Go on.”
“There were a few of them, some in uniforms, some in plainclothes. They mainly focused on Don’s office. They dusted for fingerprints.”
“What did they remove?”
“Bastards took about every piece of computer equipment Don had.”
“How much was that?”
She shook her head. “I never understood all that stuff. He had one computer. A few towers by it.”
“Servers?”
“I guess.”
“So they took all that?”
She nodded. “And guns. Lots of guns.”
“How many guns?”
“At least half a dozen.”
“Don once told me he needed to unload a hundred thousand in guns. Did he keep all his guns at home?”
She shook her head. “He has a locker at the range.”
“The one where he was killed?”
“I think so.”
“Did you think it was odd that he’d go shooting this morning?”
She nodded and waited for an unkempt security guard to pass us. In a lowered voice, she said, “When the police left last night, the detectives said Don shouldn’t go far. I texted him and said it was safe to come home. They said they’d be back for him soon. That little prick said it with a smirk, too.”
“Chris Rodriguez?”
“I guess that’s his name. But Don finally came home after midnight, when we thought it was safe. He was livid. He woke up early this morning, said he had to go somewhere. He said he thought he knew what was going on. He was scared for his life. I thought he was going to go talk to a lawyer.”
“Did he say anything about going to the range?”
She tried concentrating, but started crying again. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.”
“You have any idea who Don’s lawyer was?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What about his cell phone?”
“He had it with him, I guess.”
I noticed that people were staring at us, hard. She seemed oblivious to it now, but I didn’t want to put her under any more pressure. “So you know where this shooting range is?” I asked.
“It’s up in Carrollwood. It’s more of a shooting club, I guess.”
“Where do things stand with the police?”
She bit her lower lip. “I’m supposed to go there in a little while. I don’t even have a car. They took Don’s car last night, so he drove mine this morning. I had to take a taxi here.”
“So you need a ride still?”
She nodded.
“What do you say we pay the police a visit together?”
I wouldn’t say that C-Rod was surprised to see me with Bev. If he was, he hid it well. But that didn’t mean he wanted to see me there, either.
He opened a door for her. She passed him and stood still at the start of the long hallway that I knew led to an interrogation room, as he took a step to block my entrance. He looked like he’d been up all night. “It was nice of you to give her a ride, Porter. I’ll take it from here.”
“I have some questions for you,” I said.
He nodded for Bev to wait on the other side of the door. With the door closed, he said, “You got my card. Email me.”
There wasn’t much I could do. I needed a better angle. “You working alone again?”
He couldn’t help but nod. He took his time responding. “You think that’s by design?”
“I’m on to you, Rodriguez.”
His eyes flared with anger. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, do you?”
“Why don’t we go outside and you educate me?”
He was nodding along like that was a great idea. “Let’s talk soon. I got some work to do.”
“If it’s going to be that way, give me a minute with her.”
He didn’t want to do that, but when I waved at her, she walked to the door and tried opening it. Then he stepped aside, and she rejoined me on my side of the doorway. I led her a few feet away where we could talk in private.
“This is the end of the road for me, Bev.”
“Why?” she asked.
“That’s the way they do things. I’m sorry to leave you, but I need you to please try and remember the questions they ask you. Also, when you get home, please go over everything of Don’s you can. Try to find anything that might be out of the ordinary.” She was on the verge of tears again. I took her shoulders. “Okay, Beverly?”
She nodded, and the sobbing returned in a flood.
C-Rod stepped over and led her away. He led her back through the doorway and gave me the stare of death before he closed the door on me.
I walked away. When I reached the lobby, I eyed Shields entering.
He stopped, watched me cross the lobby. He didn’t say a word.
Neither did I.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tacos In the Country
Pinkerton
answered his phone on the first ring. “Frank Pinkerton.”
“You sound well, Judge. Like a new man.” I was flooring the gas to leave the police station.
“I feel like a new man.”
“Glad to hear it wasn’t just a dream. You still up for that ride?”
“To Hardee County? Sorry, Porter, she’s still here. She’s sleeping.”
I reached the light and flipped on my blinker to turn left. “Judge, do you have any idea what you’re doing with this girl?”
He cleared his throat. “Maybe trying to redeem myself?”
“I’ve tried that. It never works out.”
“Well, I deserve a try, don’t I?”
The light turned and I headed for I-275 North. “Just be careful is all I’m saying.”
“Thanks for your concern, Porter. Now, you ready for some good news?”
I waited a moment. “That question was rhetorical, wasn’t it?”
“Well, Audrey woke up today and remembered a little more about the girl you’re looking for.”
I was ready to merge onto I-4, the traffic apparently sailing nice for a Friday. “I’m listening, Judge.”
“Evie, her nickname, is close to her real name. But Audrey doesn’t remember what that is.”
“Strange, I’ve heard the same thing about Angie and Angel.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Porter. I’m just saying. Also, she remembered more about the girl’s dad today.”
“Christ, Judge, you give her truth serum in her sleep?”
“Do you want to know or not?”
Less than a mile onto I-4, and the traffic was already bottlenecking. “I’m just saying. And listening.”
“Well, get this. Not only was the girl’s dad a whacko, but she remembered what kind of whacko. She said he was a preacher—she thinks he was a Baptist preacher.”
“Good grief. Did she remember anything else this morning? Like where Jimmy Hoffa was buried?”
Pinkerton laughed a raspy one at that. “Not quite, but your sour ass owes me big. I did a little research for you on the Interwebs. Turns out there are only two motels in Wauchula. But six Baptist churches.”
“I won’t be needing a room. And I like my odds with the churches.”
He wished me luck and hung up.
I merged into the fast lane on I-4 and spoke to Siri. “Wauchula Baptist Church.”
The judge was right. About five red dots popped up on my Maps screen. First Baptist Church of Wauchula was the middle dot. I figured it made sense to start with Numero Uno, so I tapped that red dot and waited for my directions.
Maps told me I was looking at about an hour-twenty drive. I was ready for some silence.
Maps had warned me that traffic on I-75 South was at a standstill around Sarasota, so I stayed on I-4 all the way into Polk County, just west of Lakeland, and then got off on US 98 South. Once you get south of Orlando, there’s not much to Central Florida; it’s really just the land that time forgot. One small underdeveloped town after another, surrounded by sandy fields, scattered trees, and acres of citrus crops.
By the time I got to the edge of Wauchula, the Volvo and I were both running on empty. I stopped at a gas station and filled the tank. I told the clerk I was hungry, and asked if he could recommend a good local place for lunch. “Do you like tacos?” he asked.
“Is it hot outside?”
“Isabel’s on Route 17. Best tacos in Hardee County.”
I thanked him and started to leave, but he called me back.
I turned and saw he was pointing at the cooler. “They don’t serve beer there. You look like you could use one.”
I thanked him again and bought two bottles of Pacifico. He apologized for not having a lime. I wondered if he was my guardian angel or something.
I can’t speak to the competition in Hardee County, but he was right on about Tacos Isabel. It was a mobile taco stand with an attached awning providing some shade over a few picnic tables. I spent about seven bucks on three gorditas: one asada, one carnitas, and one al pastor. They even gave me a few limes for my beer. The grub was so good I ordered two tacos for dessert. I finished the meal and my second beer, and returned to the Volvo. The spice of the pork actually cooled me off a little. That was a trick a guide in Iraq once taught me when I was first acclimating to the desert conditions. He said that’s why they eat spicy food in Jamaica. I did three tours of duty there, but I never ate spicy food in Iraq.
The early afternoon-sun had reached its zenith, and downtown Wauchula looked deserted. A courthouse sat at the center of the town, and a rusty water tower jutted into an otherwise bleak, desolate skyline.
First Baptist Church was a gigantic red brick building not far from the center of town. Its center-point was a steeple that appeared to be the highest point in town, save possibly for the water tower. The center section of the church, which appeared to be the sanctuary, was flanked by flat, extended office space on both sides. The sprawling building was surrounded by a parking lot that rivaled the one at Raymond James Stadium.
I parked in the lot with the most cars, where I hoped to meet church staff. Across the parking lot, I saw a man in gloves unloading bags of mulch from a beat-up pickup truck. He looked too old to be doing that kind of work, but I got close and he didn’t seem to mind. His arms were taut with exploding tendons; his neck was rough from decades of the Florida sun.
“Can I give you a hand?” I asked, feeling bloated from lunch.
He wiped his brow with a rag stained from so much sweat it looked stained from oil. “I reckon that would be fine. What’s it gonna cost me, though?”
“Nothing,” I said.
I had the last ten bags of mulch out in a few minutes. He was dragging them, spreading them across a flowerbed surrounding the parking lot.
“You sure you don’t want nothing?” he asked.
“That was a favor, friend.”
“Not sure I’ve seen you before. You go to church here?”
I shook my head. “I’m down from Tampa, working.”
“What kind of work you do?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
He lowered his head and sighed. “I knew it wasn’t free.”
“Why do you say that?”
He used his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “What would a private investigator be looking for in Wauchula? About the most exciting thing ever happens here is the fair.”
“Well, truth be told, I’m looking for a young woman. Preacher’s daughter.”
“This girl in trouble?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
“What kind?”
“She may be a witness to murder. Or a suspect.”
“Well, you come to the wrong church. Our pastor’s daughters are still in school and all three are accounted for as of this morning.”
“Good, I guess I can cross one off my list.” He was still thinking. I’d give him another minute. “Maybe you could tell me where to look for my girl.”
“About how old is she?”
“I’d guess twenty.”
He nodded and spat. “I don’t think the man you’re looking for is still a preacher.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It don’t matter none, but if we’re talking about the same girl, I wouldn’t recommend you paying her daddy a visit.”
“Why not?”
He stared back at the red brick sanctuary. “Why don’t you come inside for a while?”
The leathery man, whose named was Levi, led me into a long hallway cooled by the coldest air conditioner I’d felt in a while. We passed by a wall display with booklets on every aspect of life, from managing money to when to start dating to estate planning. Then we turned and walked down another hallway with offices on both sides. First, there was a door for a youth pastor, and then one for an associate pastor. Finally, we reached the one that said Senior Pastor.
Levi went in without a word and closed the door. He emerged a minute later
, and told me the pastor would see me now. Then he walked away without giving me the chance to thank him again.
Inside the study, the pastor stood waiting to greet me with a professional smile and a firm handshake. He was a stout man a few inches short of six feet, learned and gray. He wore thick stylish glasses and casual clothes that reminded me of the portly guy who had prayed at Obama’s first inauguration. I returned the shake and told him my name.
“Good to meet you, Milo. I’m Pastor Jerry Harkin. Please call me Jerry.” He gestured for me take a seat, and took his own once I did. “Levi told me about your work. So you’re a private investigator?”
I reached into my wallet and took out my card. He read it and smiled. “Your license hasn’t expired, has it?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“I’m just playing with you. I’m sure it hasn’t. So, Levi said you may be looking for Bob Hunter’s daughter.”
“I don’t know a Bob Hunter.”
His chin was resting on two fingers, his thumbs moving in pensive circles. “And she may be in some kind of trouble?” He glanced at my card again.
“She may be a witness to a murder I was investigating.”
“Was?”
I nodded. “And am. It’s complicated.”
“So you’re still working the case?”
I nodded.
He leaned back and sighed. “And you said she’s in her early twenties?”
“That would be my guess. I saw her Sunday. That’s what she looked like to me.”
“You know anything else about her? What she does for a living?”
I inhaled slowly before I answered. “I guess you could say she’s in the adult entertainment industry.”
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “That sounds about right. There’ve been rumors in town for a while that Evangeline was working as a stripper in Tampa.”
“Evangeline?” I said. He stared into space as I repeated the name to myself. Evangeline. Eve-Evie. Eve-Angeline. Angie. Evangeline. Then, I repeated it aloud, “Evangeline?”
