Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  “This better be good,” she said as she swung the door open.

  “I don’t think it will be.”

  It was Detective Bob Morgan. Behind him stood two geeky dudes in jeans, white shirts, and blue windbreakers with some sort of official-looking gold emblem on the left breast area. Not what Tammy expected. Surprise and curiosity tamped down her anger a notch.

  “Detective? What can I do for you?”

  She glanced back inside. Had she paused the DVR?

  Morgan thrust a piece of paper at her. “We need to search your home.”

  “What?”

  “Your husband consented.” He waved the page at her. “Got his signature right here.”

  She glanced at it but didn’t really see it. “Well, I sure as hell don’t consent.”

  Morgan gave a slow nod. “Well, that presents a problem.”

  “It sure as hell does.” She jammed one fist against her hip.

  “We don’t really need your permission since Walter, the homeowner of record, has given us the green light.”

  She waved a hand. “Do you see him? I don’t. And if he isn’t here, you aren’t coming in.”

  Morgan folded the page and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I can grab an official warrant in no time. If that’s the way you want to play it.”

  “What’s this about?” Now she propped a second fist against the other hip. “What are you looking for?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation. Can’t really say more than that just yet.”

  “You sound like a TV cop.”

  “Thanks,” Morgan said. “That’s what I was going for.”

  “Come back when you can tell me what this is about.” She started to push the door closed. Morgan’s hand stopped its progress.

  “Mrs. Horton, I’m afraid you’ll have to step outside until we get this sorted out.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “Ma’am, if I even suspect you might be destroying evidence, I can come in. Warrant or no warrant. Such circumstances override the Fourth Amendment.”

  Was that true? Tammy had no way of knowing. But she was sure Morgan and every other cop on the planet would lie if need be. It was in their nature. At least that’s what happened on all the true crime shows she watched on Discovery ID. And didn’t they do the same on Law & Order? Even Monk fibbed.

  “So,” Morgan asked, “can we get started?”

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re looking for. Or why.”

  “Maybe you should ask Walter.”

  “I told you, he isn’t here.”

  “I know. He’s at his office. We’ve got some guys searching his office right now.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Call Walter.”

  “Wait here.”

  Again she tried to close the door and again Morgan stopped her.

  “Leave it open and stay where I can see you. As I said before, it’s an evidence issue.”

  “Walter will skewer you.”

  “Maybe, but for now, let’s do this my way. It’ll be easier on everyone.”

  She huffed out a breath, spun, and marched across the foyer and into the media room. The big screen displayed the frozen image of one of the judges with a forkful of shortcake hanging before his widely opened mouth. She snatched her cell phone from the coffee table, punched in Walter’s speed dial number, and brought it to her ear.

  Tammy waited through three rings. “Let me talk to Walter, Connie.”

  “He’s busy right now,” Connie said.

  “He isn’t that busy. Get his ass on the phone.”

  Connie did.

  Walter wouldn’t tell her anything. Just that he’d explain later but to let Morgan do his search.

  “Look,” Walter said, “they’re going to do it one way or the other so just get it over with.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Barbara’s murder?”

  He sighed. “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand.” She glanced toward the door where Morgan and the two officers stood staring at her.

  “Let him do his job,” Walter said. “We’ll talk later. But right now I’m a bit busy. Okay?”

  He disconnected the call. She stared at the phone, then dropped it next to her wine glass. She returned to the door.

  “Okay, Andy, Barney, and Floyd, have at it.”

  Morgan nodded. He and the geeks stepped inside. “I’ll have to ask you to vacate the premises while we do the search.”

  “You’re throwing me out of my own house?”

  “Just until we finish.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Not sure. Maybe an hour.”

  “You guys would’ve made good Stormtroopers.”

  “Ma’am.” He waved a hand toward the door.

  “Five minutes,” Tammy said. “Can you give me five minutes?”

  “Ma’am?”

  She jerked her head toward the TV. “They’re doing the final judging. I’ve been waiting for weeks.”

  “Ma’am?”

  This guy was a broken record. “The Gulf Coast Chef Challenge. I’m sure the key lime pie’s going to win.”

  “Don’t you think that can wait?”

  Tammy felt frustration tears collect in her eyes. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Ask Walter.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  AT THAT MOMENT the search of Walter’s office was winding down. Walter stood against the wall in his office—the wall that displayed all his degrees and honors and photos with various politicians and celebrities—as an officer lugged his computer out the door, followed by another rolling a dolly stacked with three boxes of papers. He followed them into the hallway and watched as they trundled toward the elevators.

  “Walter, what’s going on?” Connie asked as he closed the door.

  “Connie, I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’ll tell you later. But right now I need to talk with Howard and Anthony. Are they here?”

  She looked hurt. He wanted to hug her and tell her not to worry, but if he did he feared he’d break down. Right now he had more pressing issues.

  “They’re down in the conference room. Working on their opening statements for tomorrow’s trial.”

  Walter hesitated, not relishing this conversation, then turned and headed down the hall.

  He found his two partners, Howard Levine and Anthony Steen, leaning over the massive conference table, its surface littered with papers. They looked up when he entered. After apologizing for the interruption, Walter sat across from them and told them everything. They slowly settled in chairs as he spoke, disbelief on their faces. But he held nothing back. The affair. Barbara’s murder. The whole story. Their shock was only outweighed by the fear that wound around his gut.

  “Looks like you guys are now my defense council,” Walter said.

  Levine raised an eyebrow. “Might be better if you got someone outside the firm, don’t you think?”

  Walter shook his head. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

  “Walter, I’m afraid I agree with Howard here,” Steen said. “It would be like you defending yourself.”

  “So?”

  “Only a fool represents himself. You know that.”

  “But this story needs to be contained. The fewer people who know, the better it will be. For the firm. For me.”

  Levine leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t you think this story will hit the news? Big time?”

  “But we can delay it until Morgan realizes I didn’t do it. That way, when it does break, I’ll no longer be in the suspect pool.”

  “You think the cops can do that before the six o’clock news?” Steen asked.

  Levine nodded his agreement. “A murder on The Point? Henry Plummer’s wife? Big news.”

  “The cops’ll keep a lid on suspects, on me, for as long as they can. You know that. All that ongoing investigation crap. Morgan
won’t give the media shit. He never does until he has to.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Levine shrugged.

  Steen glanced at Levine and then said, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea, but you know we’ll do it. If that’s what you want.”

  “I do.” Walter looked at Levine, and then Steen. “I didn’t do this. Sure, I was seeing her. Sure, I was there last night. But she was alive and very well when I left.”

  “We believe you,” Steen said.

  “Thanks,” Walter said. “I need that about now.”

  Walter wanted to believe he could clap a lid on this. Really believe it. But he knew otherwise. He didn’t trust Morgan or think he would do a speedy job. Not speedy enough to save him from being ravaged in the media. Morgan never rushed anything. He was a plodder. Looked under every rock. Rarely made a mistake. Took his own sweet time. Right now Walter needed time. A day, even a few hours, could make all the difference. Besides, Walter had another plan.

  Ray Longly.

  Walter’s next stop.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I TURNED THE pickup into the lot at Ray’s and parked next to a gleaming silver S63 Mercedes. Big V12, polished chrome wheels, deeply blacked-out windows, and a license plate that read: HRTN LAW. Walter’s ride.

  Interesting.

  I had left Nicole at her place so she could work on her screenplay. The murder of Barbara Plummer had given her several new ideas for plot twists. She had given me the thumbnail on the ride over to her place. The story focused on the murder of a business executive, a Silicon Valley mogul, who crossed a business partner and ended up floating in the San Francisco Bay, head missing.

  Woman had a dark side.

  She also said I’d better be back by eight to take her to dinner. Woman had a bossy streak, too. No argument from me, though. Dinner with Nicole was one thing, nice and pleasant, but the après-dinner activities were a whole other story.

  I found Ray and Walter huddled at the deck table. The late-day sun cast the western sky orange and bent long shadows from the beach umbrellas below. Many of the beachgoers were packing up to head home. Others remained stretched out on towels, grabbing the day’s last bit of UV radiation.

  I settled in an empty chair. “What’s going on?”

  Ray nodded toward Walter.

  “I didn’t kill Barbara.”

  “And, as I told you,” I said, “I’m inclined to believe you.”

  “For the record, I do, too,” Ray added.

  Walter puffed out his cheeks, exhaling slowly. “I’m not sure anyone else does. Certainly not Detective Morgan.”

  Walter had had a terrible day. No doubt about that. One of those that make you question everything. I mean, an affair exposed, his lover murdered, his marriage likely damaged, his career in jeopardy, even his freedom at stake. Doesn’t get much worse than that. And it showed on his face. Pale, drawn, and with sad droopy eyes. Walter looked a lot older about now.

  “That’s his job,” I said. “To suspect everyone.”

  “Particularly those filmed leaving the scene?” Walter looked out toward the Gulf, his unfocused eyes almost glassy. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Have you told Tammy?” I asked. “About you and Barbara?”

  “Not yet. Haven’t been home. Not sure I want to.” He sighed. “This isn’t something you discuss on the phone.” He looked down at his hands, clasped together before him. “She will go ballistic.”

  “And then some.” I rested my elbows on the table. “So why are you here?”

  “I want to hire Ray. To find the real killer.”

  Not what I’d expected. Nor was I sure how I felt about it. Definitely fuel on the fire. When Tammy found out Walter was humping Barbara, and I had made a video that put him in the cross-hairs of a murder investigation, and then old Walter hired Ray, well, she would go apeshit. Big time. And I would hear about it. Bigger time. A throbbing pain blossomed in my left temple.

  “Isn’t that Morgan’s job?” I asked. “To track down killers?”

  “Don’t trust the cops. They’ll take the easy way.”

  There was truth to that. “So why us?”

  “Because you believe me. Because you already know everything. I want as few people as possible to know about this. That’s best for Tammy. For me. For the firm.”

  Walter was in la-la land. If he thought this would stay under wraps, he was delusional. I told him as much.

  “I know. But if I can just slow it down. Just until I’m cleared.”

  Walter looked like a drowning man, reaching for an imaginary life preserver. As though his rudder wasn’t engaged and he was motoring around in circles. I could only guess at all the chaos rattling around in his brain. Yesterday, everything was good, smooth, life on an upward trajectory, and then bam. Maxwell’s silver hammer. Like a massive eighteen wheeler T-boning his big Mercedes.

  “There might be a bit of a conflict here,” Ray said. “Henry hired us to shadow Barbara. Find out what she was up to.”

  “And now you know,” Walter said. “Seems like that wraps up your deal with him.”

  “Maybe. Let me talk with Henry first. See what he says.”

  Walter leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. “This will never end.”

  “Tell you what,” Ray said. “You think about it overnight. Be sure we’re the ones you want to hire. I’ll have a chat with Henry. Then we’ll go from there.”

  Walter looked up, then nodded. “Okay.” He stood. “What now?”

  “Go home,” I said. “Talk to your wife.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RAY DROPPED ME at Alberto’s Exotic and Vintage Cars, saying he had computer stuff to do but would meet Pancake and me at Captain Rocky’s around eight. When Alberto led me into the garage area, I saw that he had again worked his magic. Said he found the windows I needed at a salvage yard up near Fairhope. Apparently the only two windows remaining intact in another ’65 Mustang that reached end of life in a head-on collision on I-10 over near Tillman’s Corner. Lucky for me, less so for the owner.

  Alberto’s guys had washed, waxed, and detailed the Mustang so that now as I sped down Highway 182, Perdido Beach Boulevard, toward The Point, the low-hanging, red-orange sun deepened the burgundy of the car’s hood. And the car seemed to run better. A wash, a wax, and a couple of new windows will do that. I knew I was an hour earlier than Nicole and I had planned, but I had nothing else to do, so why not?

  “You’re early,” Nicole said when she opened her front door. She wore white jogging shorts and an orange cropped tee. Sweat covered her face and flat belly, her feet bare. She had great feet. Better legs.

  “What are you up to?” I asked.

  “Went for a beach run.”

  “Sorry to barge in, but I’m starving.”

  “For me?” She smiled.

  “That, too.”

  “Anxious. I like that in a man.” She stepped back and I entered. “Pour us a drink. There’s some Patrón in the freezer. I’ll jump in the shower.”

  “Need your back washed?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “That might delay dinner.”

  I smiled. “I’ll survive.”

  She laughed. “Bring the drinks with you.”

  She turned, lifting the t-shirt over her head as she headed toward her room. Lord, she was something else.

  Thirty minutes later, I toweled off, dressed, and then sat on the edge of the bed, strapping on my sandals. Nicole, in jeans and a dark-green pullover, brushed out her still damp hair, pulled it back into a ponytail, and secured it with a black scrunchy.

  “Now I’m hungry,” she said.

  “Great sex will do that.”

  “Who said it was great?”

  “You did,” I said. “Several times, if I remember correctly.”

  She playfully punched my arm. “Smart-ass.”

  “Just keeping the record straight.”

  We walked outside.

  She eyed my Mustang. “I see you g
ot your car back.” She held out a hand. “I’ll drive.”

  “Not sure that’s a good idea. This car’s fifty years old. Doesn’t handle like your Millennium Falcon.”

  Palm up, fingers curling, “Gimme.”

  I did. No point in arguing with her. I mean, she had all those girly parts that make guys, even a stud like me, do stupid stuff. Like handing over car keys. Which I did.

  Once we were buckled in, and I made damn sure my seat belt was snug, she reversed from the drive, yanked the shifter back to D, and with a sharp chirp from the rear tires, launched down the street. After a couple of hair-raising turns, she climbed onto 182, and the race was on. She didn’t share the road well. The other motorists never had a chance.

  “Seems to handle just fine,” she said as she swerved around an SUV and then slid through a nearly nonexistent gap between a pickup and an eighteen wheeler into the far left lane, the air pushed aside by the big rig wobbling the Mustang. She didn’t seem to notice as she accelerated past a white Corvette.

  I offered no response since my heart clogged my throat, rendering speech impossible.

  Finally I unfolded from the car amid the cloud of shell dust she kicked up when she slid to a stop in Captain Rocky’s front lot. My cell buzzed. Caller ID read: Tammy.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I’d better get this.”

  I answered, watching Nicole’s jean-clad hips sway toward the entrance. My, my. Tammy’s voice yanked me back to reality.

  No hello or how are you or any other pleasantries, she simply said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine actually. But thanks for caring.”

  “You asshole. You put Walter in the middle of all this.”

  “I think Walter put himself in the box. No pun intended.”

  “Fuck you, Jake.” She was working up a head of steam now.

  “Nicole beat you to it.”

  “God, you’re such an ass.”

  “I work at it.”

  “Why did you take a video, for Christ’s sake?”

  “That’s what we were hired to do.”

  “But you gave it to the cops. Are you insane?”

  “I sort of had to. Withholding evidence being what it is.”