Deep Six

by D P Lyle

  I scanned them, Nicole scooting her chair closer to see them better. There were eight pages, each with a name in bold print on top, several paragraphs of info below. Three had red Xs scratched next to the name.

  “The ones marked are the ones I think top the list,” Pancake added. “George Rose. Big player in Mobile real estate. Has a big boat. Apparently a young lady went overboard during a party. Very intoxicated. Very drowned. Her father sued for wrongful death. Walter took Rose for just north of twelve million.”

  “Ouch,” Nicole said. “That’s adult money.”

  “Indeed.” Pancake nodded his massive head. “Rose made a bunch of threats. Walter’s practice, Walter’s house, Walter’s life, the usual.”

  I flipped to the next red X’ed page. “Santiago Gomez?”

  “An illegal who blew away two guys in a parking lot. Drug deal. Santiago walked away with the money and the drugs. Got popped trying to sell the drugs to some undercover dude. Still had the murder weapon stuffed beneath his belt. Real genius. Walter put together some bullshit defense that didn’t work. Big shock, Santiago got life without. Santiago’s brother Raul, apparently one of the cartel’s bad boys, threatened Walter. Walter called in ICE, the FBI, everyone he could think of. Each told him to pack sand. Said Raul had rights. Hadn’t broken any laws. He’d be my number one. Violence being part of his basic personality and all.”

  “Sounds like he could use a little anger management,” Nicole said.

  “I think old Raul is way beyond all that. I’m just saying.” Pancake drained his coffee cup in two gulps. “The last one is Satinder Singh. Walter gutted him in a divorce. Couple of years ago. Planted a bomb in Walter’s car. Lucky for Walter it was a dud. Didn’t explode but flared into white-hot fire that reduced Walter’s Mercedes to a mass of twisted metal.”

  “I remember that,” I said. “Tammy went all nuclear. Bent my ear about it for a month. Didn’t Singh go to jail?”

  Pancake nodded. “Besides having to cough up a hundred grand to pay for Walter’s car, he got three years. Out after fifteen months. Just a couple of months ago.”

  “And all these others?” I asked, waving the pages toward Pancake.

  “Second tier,” Ray said. “We’ll concentrate on them later if none of those pan out.”

  “Anything on the names Henry gave us?”

  “One was easy,” Ray said. “Ely Thompson did have some heart trouble. Had surgery down at Tampa General. Didn’t make it. The other one, the young kid, Jason Hughes, has a condo over in Destin. Developed a start-up he called Media Magic. Mostly gaming stuff.”

  I nodded. “So what’s the plan?”

  “You and Nicole check out Hughes and Singh,” Ray said. “Pancake and I’ll chat with Rose and Raul.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  WALTER DREADED THIS talk. Didn’t see any way to avoid it, had to be, but the pressure in his chest and the tightness he sensed in his scalp screamed “run away.” Avoid this at all cost. But he couldn’t. He had screwed up. Big time. Now he had to do the right thing. To pay for his sins.

  He stood at the front door of Henry Plummer’s home, finger hovering near the doorbell, frozen. As if he had suddenly been paralyzed. He had rehearsed what he would say, how he would apologize, guessed at Henry’s possible responses. Had laid awake most of the night going through multiple scenarios. Over coffee and eggs this morning he did the same, Tammy asking where his head was, why he was so quiet. He brushed her aside saying that he had a lot on his mind.

  You think?

  I mean the affair with Barbara aside, he had to be the main suspect. He had read that in Morgan’s eyes yesterday.

  He had called his office, saying he’d be in late, telling Connie to cancel a couple of clients. He rarely did that but now he’d done it two days in a row. The last thing he wanted to do was sit and listen to some other poor bastard’s legal woes. Right now his own troubles trumped even paying clients.

  Connie had told him that some newspaper guy had been there bright and early. Actually waiting for her when she unlocked the office, saying he wanted to talk with Walter. He even said he’d wait. She had dismissed him in no uncertain terms. She didn’t remember his name or even who he worked for, only wanting to send him away before Walter showed up and got caught unawares.

  Connie was worth every penny he paid her.

  His finger touched the button, but he couldn’t push it. He glanced up the street toward his own home. His refuge. Maybe he should go back to bed. Worry about this later. But, procrastination wasn’t in his nature. Before he could fret over this any longer he pressed the button. Chimes sounded, followed by footsteps. The door swung open.

  The shock on Henry’s face was real. He even took a step back.

  “Sorry to bother you, Henry,” Walter said. “But we should talk.”

  Henry wore slacks and an untucked golf shirt, his hair still damp from a morning shower. He hesitated, and then took another step back. “Come in.”

  They sat at the kitchen table after Henry poured them each a cup of coffee.

  “I’m so sorry,” Walter said. “For everything.”

  Henry nodded, cradling his cup in both hands. His gaze stayed on the table as if he couldn’t look at Walter.

  “I want you to know I had nothing to do with what happened. To Barbara.”

  Again, Henry nodded.

  “I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

  Finally Henry looked at him. “I know.”

  Walter felt as if he could exhale for the first time. As if the bubble in his chest deflated with an almost audible whoosh.

  Henry continued. “I told the police that, too. That I didn’t see how you could be involved.” He sighed. “In her murder, anyway.”

  “And the other, the affair, I’m sorry for that, too. It was a betrayal. Pure and simple.”

  “It is that.”

  “I don’t know how it happened. It wasn’t intended and it certainly wasn’t meant to hurt you. I know Barbara felt the same way. She loved you.”

  “Odd way to show it, don’t you think?”

  “I do. And if she were here, she’d feel as badly as I do.”

  “You going to tell me how my wife felt? Like you know her better than I did?” Henry took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.”

  “Sure it was. You have every right to be angry.”

  “I’m not angry, Walter. Not with you. Not with her. I’m just disappointed.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Truth is, I understand. I wasn’t the best husband. I worked too much and I traveled too much. I never gave her the attention she deserved.”

  “Don’t do this. It wasn’t your fault. Barbara told me as much. She was happy with you.”

  “Apparently.”

  “She was. She loved you. What we had, what we did, was . . . I don’t know what it was. It just happened.”

  Henry drained his cup. “Walter, I’ll tell you like I told Ray Longly, part of me was relieved it was you.”

  Not what Walter expected. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You might or might not know, but Barbara had done this before. She had had other affairs.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “She did. Three times, actually. I was afraid it was some young beach dude or something like that. With you, I understand on some level. You and she were always close.”

  “We were friends. It sort of evolved from there.”

  “As things like that do.” Henry stood, refilled his coffee, waving the pot toward Walter, who declined. He returned to the table. “So, we’re good, Walter. I don’t blame you.”

  “You should. It was not my best decision.”

  “But it’s done. You can’t un-ring that bell.”

  “I have to ask, Henry, did you have anything to do with this? With Barbara?”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “You know I didn’t.”

  “I do, but I had to ask.” He sighed. “Any idea who m
ight have?”

  “None.”

  Walter clasped his hands together, resting them on the table. “What now?”

  “Find out who did. And why?”

  “Morgan’s all over that,” Walter said.

  “As is Ray.”

  “I know. Do you have any problems with him working for both of us?”

  “I don’t really give a damn about all that. I just want answers.”

  “Me, too.”

  Walter stared at his coffee cup, the coffee now cold. It was time to leave, but he couldn’t move. As if something else needed to be said. But he came up empty. Further apologies or recriminations didn’t seem right. Didn’t even seem necessary with Henry so accepting of his and Barbara’s failures. But he still felt he should do more.

  Henry broke the thick silence. “Got a call from some newspaper guy this morning. At the office. My staff deflected him, but I suspect I’ll have to talk with them sooner or later.”

  “Probably the same guy who stopped by my office this morning.”

  “You? Why you?”

  “I guess they already know about Barbara and me.”

  “How could they?” Henry asked.

  “Some of these reporters have sources deep inside the local PD. Always have. I suspect that’s the source.”

  Henry let out a heavy sigh. “This nightmare has a lot of tentacles, doesn’t it?” He looked up at Walter.

  Walter nodded, thinking, boy does it ever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “DON’T YOU THINK torching his car was a bit excessive?” I asked.

  Nicole and I had intercepted Satinder Singh in the parking lot of his real estate office near the beach in Gulf Shores. Singh was a slight man, wrapped in a gray suit, white shirt, burgundy tie, and matching turban. He had led us into his office where we now sat.

  “It surely does now.” Singh spoke perfect English with a slight British accent. “At the time I was filled with anger. I mean that bastard lied in court. My ex-wife did, too. Cost me a small fortune.”

  “Looks like you recovered,” I said. The office had all the trappings of success. Expensive leather furniture, art on the wall, the whole deal.

  “So it might appear,” Singh said. “But with me locked up for fifteen months my business suffered greatly. I’m just now getting it back on track.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Singh asked.

  “Any residual animosity toward Walter?”

  “Of course. I’ll hate that son of a bitch forever.”

  “Enough to want harm to come his way?”

  Singh’s forehead creased and a note of caution crept into his voice. “What is this about?”

  “You watch the news?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Too depressing.”

  “So you don’t know about the murder out on The Point the other night?”

  Singh looked confused. “Sure. I heard about that. What does that have to do with Walter? Or with me?”

  “Maybe nothing. But the lady lived right down the street from Walter.”

  “You think Walter had something to do with it?”

  “Or maybe someone wanted it to seem that way.”

  Singh’s eyes widened. “You mean someone like me?”

  I shrugged.

  Singh jumped from his chair. “Are you insane? Me? I could never . . .”

  “What?” I asked. “Torch someone’s car? Kill someone? Hire someone to kill another person? Frame someone you had issues with?”

  Singh leaned on his desk. His dark eyes stabbed at me. “How dare you come into my office and ask such questions. Make such accusations. I think you should both leave.”

  I didn’t move. Neither did Nicole.

  “I’m simply asking the questions the police will,” I said.

  “The police?”

  I nodded. “They know what I know. Or soon will. I think they’ll look into this angle. The possibility that someone was trying to frame Walter. And when they do, they’ll come knocking on your door.”

  Singh collapsed into his chair as if he were a deflating balloon. “Of course.” He folded his hands before him, almost as if in prayer. He looked like he might cry.

  “Look,” he said. “I had issues with Walter. I handled them badly. I paid for my poor judgement and my despicable actions.” He swallowed hard. “But this? I had nothing to do with this.”

  I believed him. And since I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, we left.

  By the time we reached Nicole’s car, my cell chimed. It was Tammy. My reflex was to send it over the voice mail but decided I’d better see what she had to say. Maybe some news on Walter. I punched the answer button.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed.

  Tammy can sometimes be a broken record. Seemed to ask me that same question at the beginning every conversation we’d had for years. Most of them, anyway.

  “Nothing. Thanks for asking.” My standard response.

  “You called the newspapers? Sent them out here?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then why are they here asking questions about Walter and Barbara?”

  “Because stories like this sell newspapers.”

  “Listen, numbnuts,” she said, almost a hiss, “I know what they do. I know they’re bottom-feeding scum. But what I don’t know is how they got that information. How they even knew to come here looking for Walter. Riddle me that, loser.”

  Now I wish I had sent the media her way. I mean, if you have to do the time you might as well do the crime. I started to say just that but instead I said, “Most reporters have contacts inside the police department. You think that might be it?”

  Silence. Guess she hadn’t thought if that. Much easier to simply blame me.

  “Look,” I said, “I haven’t told anyone except the police.”

  “So, what do I do?”

  “Tell them ‘no comment’ and close the door in their face.”

  I heard a heavy, frustrated sigh. “Can’t you come over and run them off?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Same thing.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. Call Walter.” I disconnected the call.

  Nicole raised an eyebrow at me.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

  We climbed in the SL and were off. Next stop: Jason Hughes’ place.

  Which turned out to be on the fifth floor of an upscale condo building on the sand in Destin. Jason was the prototypical nerd. Thin and pale, as if, even though he lived on the beach, he never really ventured outside. Apparently a night owl since our knock on his door seemed to have rousted him from bed. He greeted us in gray cotton drawstring pants, a dark blue t-shirt, bare feet, and serious bedhead, his longish hair a cluster of cowlicks. We apologized but he was gracious, saying he always worked until around four in the morning and usually slept until ten or so.

  He offered juice or coffee, but we declined, so after he made himself a cup of instant coffee, we sat at his dining table. He answered our questions without hesitation, though he couldn’t keep his gaze from straying to Nicole, over and over. He said he held no grudge against Henry Plummer and that he’d actually learned a lot from the lawsuit process, that it had cost him very little as an attorney friend did the work in exchange for Jason setting up his home and office computer systems. He had now moved on to gaming and his new company, Media Magic, was on the verge of popping—his word. He had heard nothing of Barbara’s murder as he never watched TV or read a newspaper. And no he wasn’t involved in any way.

  I believed him, too.

  Two dead ends.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RAY WASN’T HAPPY. He hated hot weather. Of course, living on the Gulf Coast meant he had to deal with it on a regular basis, but still, he hated it. And today, the temp was already on the climb. No clouds, no Gulf breeze, no re
lief in sight. Didn’t bode well for his mood. Supposed to reach the 90s, according to the local weather gurus. But Ray knew they batted five hundred at best. Pancake, for all his size and padding, was the exact opposite. The hotter the better for him. Said it reminded him of his August two-a-day practices. Hittin’ weather, he called it. So now as Ray sped down Highway 180, Pancake rode shotgun, window down, playing airplane with his hand.

  That was one of the many things Ray liked about the big guy. Sure he was smart, and tough as a bag of nails, but inside Pancake was still a boy. Always seemed to grab life by the handful and enjoyed every minute of it. Ray often wished he had a dose of Pancake’s playfulness and bit less of his own deeply rooted cynicism. But it was an empty wish. He was too old, too set in his ways to change, so he simply enjoyed Pancake’s enjoyment of life.

  The house Raul Gomez rented, like the entire neighborhood, was in every respect modest. Tan stucco, worn green tile roof, grass mowed but scattered with spiky tufts of crabgrass. Ray walked up the cracked walkway toward the front stoop, Pancake following behind. His knock got no response.

  “He isn’t home.”

  The voice came from his left. When he looked he saw a stooped, thin, elderly woman, gray hair pulled up into a topknot bun, a single loose strand hanging over her left eye. She wore rolled-up jeans, sockless tennis shoes, and an oversized, dirt-stained, white t-shirt. She carried a black plastic flat of flowers. Mostly red and white.

  “Any idea when he’ll be back?” Ray asked.

  She settled the flowers near her own walkway. Ray now saw that dark strips of turned dirt edged each side.

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, wiping her hands on a frayed pale-blue towel she then tossed on the ground next to the flowers.

  “Ray.”

  “That don’t tell me nothing.” She waited for his response but when he said nothing she went on. “Name’s Hattie. Hattie Shaw.”

  Ray smiled. “I’m Ray Longly. This is Pancake.”