“Things have been slow lately. I’m not sure there will be much to see.”
“It would be less disruptive to your business and quicker for us if we could just copy the files without having to take your computer in.”
Martha’s eyes darkened. Her smile faded away.
“So basically, what you are telling me is that I can cooperate, or I can wait for a warrant, but then you will come back and take my computer?”
Jim felt like he had the upper hand.
“Yes, ma’am. Basically, that’s it.”
Martha’s smile returned, but an element of confrontation colored it.
“Just let me know when, Trooper Demore.” She used his correct title. “I’ll have everything ready for you.”
Jim picked up his hat.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll call you tomorrow to set up a time.”
He did not care much for this mostly smiling, friendly appearing woman with the strange eyes. He did not care much for her, and he cared even less for her store. He picked up his hat and got the hell out of Dodge.
He opened the front door and stepped back into the late afternoon sun. The warmth felt good. Something about the store left Jim feeling spiritually polluted, unclean even. Which was something, considering he did not think himself a spiritual person. At least not in the standard religious sense.
He stood in the sun for a moment and let the daylight work its own magic. The sun acted as a bright, fiery disinfectant. He rarely spent time thinking about spirituality. He focused on the world he could see and touch. If the supernatural world did exist, which he strongly doubted, and if it included characters like Martha St. Onge and Kevin Williams, then he would be more than happy to keep it out of his mind and out of his day-to-day world. Given the choice between science and superstition, Jim had no doubt that science would always triumph.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jim looked at the printout. The number of Dodge Vipers registered in Florida surprised him. Patrolling the southern Gulf Coast freeways, Jim would occasionally see a Viper, but he was more likely to see a Corvette or Porsche. And rarely, a Ferrari or a Lamborghini.
The printout showed most of the Viper registrations clustered in the Ft. Lauderdale-to-Miami corridor. A couple registered in Florida’s northern counties, and a few more registered in the central, as well as the lower, west coast counties. Of the dozen or so Southwest Florida Vipers, three were red, and one red and black. The red and black Viper had a Tampa address.
The accident had occurred on the southbound leg of the I-75 freeway, south of Ft. Myers but north of Naples. Was it possible that the Viper he had glimpsed at the voodoo store was the same car? When questioned, the little freak, Williams, had told him that the woman was from Atlanta and just wanted directions. He did not believe Williams’ story. His cop-sense told him that Williams was lying. But then, why would he lie? What connection could he have with her that would cause him to risk his job by lying to a cop?
Williams didn’t seem like the brightest bulb in the box. What if in the lie, there was a sliver of truth? What if she were actually from Tampa, but the best Williams could come up with in the moment was Atlanta? It was only a hunch, but it gave Jim a place to start. He would take a drive up to Tampa. Bruce York was the name on the registration. Time for a little road trip.
A couple of clicks of his computer’s mouse and Jim had Bruce York’s phone number. Jim punched the numbers into his desk phone.
***
A cloud of anxiety had descended on Bruce. Kat was supposed to have called him an hour ago. He wanted to talk to her about their relationship. A serious talk. It was time to take their relationship to the next level, as clichéd as that sounded. Bruce wanted to talk about being “exclusive.”
He jumped when the phone finally rang. The caller identification said “unknown.” Unknown might be either a government phone or a telemarketer. Bruce took great care in keeping his name and number off of telemarketing lists. Probably more FEMA crap. A new tropical storm had formed out in the Gulf. He answered the call.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Mr. York?”
The voice sounded courteous and professional, but not familiar.
“Yeah, I’m Bruce York,” Bruce said, trying not to sound too friendly. “And you are?”
“Corporal Jim Demore with the Florida Highway Patrol.”
Bruce’s first thought was that Kat had been in an accident, which was why she had not called. They must have found his number in her cell phone. Don’t panic.
“Is everything OK?”
“Mr. York, I am investigating a motor vehicle collision and I need to ask you some questions.”
“I don’t understand. I haven’t been in any accidents.”
“Mr. York, you do own a red and black Dodge Viper, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I keep it parked in my garage when I’m not driving it and I haven’t been in any accidents.”
Demore’s questioning made Bruce uncomfortable. The Viper was not something he wanted most people to know about. Bruce’s story about a small inheritance had held up well thus far, but it would not hold up for long under serious scrutiny.
“Mr. York, are you married?”
“No.” That question brought back some unpleasant memories. “Not at the moment anyway. Why?”
“Anyone else drive your car recently?”
Bruce hesitated just a second before answering.
“No. No one drives the Viper but me.”
“Mr. York, I would like to speak with you in person. Is the address on your registration still valid?”
“Yes.” Don’t panic.
“Great. I’ll be in Tampa in about two hours. I’m sure we can get this cleared up fairly quickly. I would like to see the car.”
“Two hours?” Bruce asked, trying not to let his voice give away the concern and fear creeping into his mind. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.
“Yeah, I guess that’s okay,” Bruce managed to squeak out. He would let him look at the Viper, see that it had no damage, and that should be the end of it.
“I haven’t been in any accidents,” Bruce said again. Shit, why do I keep saying that?
“That’s fine, Mr. York. I’ll see you in about two hours.”
“Ok...yeah...two hours.”
The line went dead. Bruce hung up the phone. He stared at the receiver for a moment and picked it back up. He dialed Kat’s number.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Global Positioning software allowed Jim to navigate quickly and easily to Bruce York’s home in Tampa. As far as technology went, GPS turned out to be the next best thing to dash-cams.
Turning into a cul-de-sac, he looked closely at each house as he cruised past well-manicured lawns. Although the GPS would announce his arrival at Bruce York’s house, the old habit of watching address numbers died hard. Driving through the upper-middle-class neighborhood, he saw no tacky pink flamingos, no patches of brown grass. Just lush green lawns, well-tended flowers, and healthy trees and shrubs. A middle-management oasis in a mostly working-class city.
The majority of the driveways were empty, the automobiles still either at work or hidden away from the hot Florida sun in two- and three-car garages. But Jim did see the occasional Lexus, Acura, or big SUV parked in a driveway, adding to the impression of upper-middle-class success.
Jim arrived at Bruce York’s house near the end of the cul-de-sac. The Viper was not in sight, but a late-model, blue Acura sat in the driveway. Jim shut down the Charger, grabbed his campaign hat and made his way up the drive, past the Acura.
A portico thrust out from the front of the house, held up by two square columns. Jim stepped beneath its cover and rang the doorbell. He waited a few moments and rang it again. The door opened, revealing a heavyset man of medium height who looked to be in his fifties.
“Mr. York?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. York, I’m Corporal Jim Demore.”
Bruce York lo
oked distracted and unkempt. Not exactly what Jim expected in this nicely kept neighborhood. York was half-a-head shorter, and his hair looked thin and permanently unmanageable. Why would a guy like this have a Viper? Midlife crisis?
“You’re the officer who called me?”
“I did.”
Something about York seemed off. Not necessarily dangerous. Just not quite right.
“I only need a few minutes, Mr. York,” Jim reassured him.
Bruce opened the door wider.
“I have a visitor.”
“A couple of questions, Mr. York. That’s all.”
Jim kept himself relaxed, ready. His internal radar clicked along unconsciously, searching for threats.
Bruce stepped back and opened the door. Cool air from inside the house touched Jim’s face and hands. He stepped into a medium-size foyer. The interior of the house was open, with ample sunlight that made the house seem as bright as Bruce York seemed dull. Bruce closed the door behind them.
“I don’t have much time,” Bruce said.
Jim glanced around. The foyer opened to a spacious living room. The furniture was contemporary, bordering on minimalist. The room looked thirty-something hipster and gave the impression of an expensive professional design.
“I don’t think this will take long, Mr. York.” Unless, of course, you lie to me.
“DMV tells me you’re the owner of a red and black Dodge Viper. Is that correct?”
“I don’t drive it all that much. I have another car.”
“The Acura?”
“Acura? No, no. That belongs to my friend. She’s swimming.”
Bruce pushed his glasses back up his nose.
“I have a pool. In the back.”
“That’s nice, Mr. York. You didn’t take that Viper down toward Naples, a week ago Wednesday, did you?”
Jim found himself glancing toward the patio doors at the far side of the living room. He saw the corner of a pool through the glass doors.
“No, no,” Bruce said. “I haven’t had the Viper out in a couple of weeks.”
“When was the last time you drove the Viper, Mr. York.”
“A couple of weeks ago, I think. I took my friend for a ride. On a Saturday.”
“And have you ever let your friend or anyone else borrow the car?”
“Ah, no. I don’t let anyone else drive it. Insurance. You know.”
Bruce’s face scrunched up as he talked. His eyes darted left away from Jim’s, then back again.
“Nope, nobody drives the Viper. Only me. You said you wanted to see it?”
Jim glanced toward the patio doors again. The water in the visible corner of the pool looked calm. No sign of swimming.
“Where do you work, Mr. York.”
Bruce seemed calm, but behind his glasses, his eyes blinked rapidly.
“MacDill. For the federal government. GSA. General Services Administration.”
Jim reached up and removed a small notebook and a pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled a couple of notes.
“I’ll need your work phone number.”
Bruce managed to spit out a series of numbers. Little beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
“The Viper is in the garage,” he half-mumbled. “We can go through the kitchen.”
Bruce led the way into the kitchen. As Jim followed, the patio door slid open. Jim stopped, turned, and waited. He rested his hand on the top of his holster as a young woman came into the house. She wore a light pink, velour body wrap that stopped well above her knees, and red macramé leather sandals. Her left hand held a couple of pink strips of cloth that Jim could only assume were her swimsuit. The way she carried herself radiated confidence. Maybe even a touch of arrogance. He had only glimpsed the woman in Ft. Myers, but York’s lady friend put him on alert. Could be the same woman. Maybe.
“Ma’am,” Jim said, greeting her.
The woman looked directly at Jim, but said nothing.
“Would you mind having a seat?” Jim told her. More of a command than a question.
She smiled and walked over to the sofa. When she sat, the body wrap crawled up, barely covering her crotch. She looked to be in her early twenties, and she moved with a graceful athleticism, like she might be a fitness athlete, or possibly a dancer. Maybe even both. She slowly crossed her legs toward Jim and let the little pieces of pink cloth drop onto the cushion next to her.
“If you think you need to search me, officer,” her voice was playful. “There’s nothing under the wrap. Except me.”
Jim refused to be flustered.
“Ma’am, I just need to see some identification.”
“It’s in the guest room. With my clothes.”
She gestured toward an open door off the living room. Jim turned back toward Bruce, who stood frozen in the kitchen. He had opened the door to the garage, but had stopped when Jim stopped.
“I need to check your guest room,” Jim told Bruce, “For everyone’s safety.”
Bruce nodded stupidly, still holding the door to the garage partly open. Still blinking.
Jim made his way past the living room furniture and pushed open the door to the guest room. The room was surprisingly large. The furniture looked new and expensive, and designed to give the room a tropical feel. Jim saw the pool through a pair of patio doors at the far end of the room.
He stepped inside and removed his pistol from its holster. A closed door stood to his right. Moving to one side, he turned the knob and flung it open. It was a small walk-in closet. Two terry cloth robes hung on one side. Other than that, the closet was empty.
He closed the door, holstered his weapon, and surveyed the room again. A yellow, halter style, mini-sundress rested neatly on the bed. Beside it was a small, matching yellow tote bag. He removed his pen from his pocket and used it to push the sides of the tote apart. The bag contained a wallet, makeup, and surprisingly, a couple of candles. Nothing he would call dangerous. He left the tote on the bed and returned to the living room.
“Looks like you’re prepared for hurricane season.”
Kat looked at Jim quizzically.
“Hurricane season?” She asked.
“The candles in your bag. That is your bag on the bed?”
“I didn’t realize that checking the room meant going through my personal things, officer.”
“It was in plain sight, ma’am. I’m just trying not to get myself shot. Fortunately, I don’t think your candles are loaded.”
As silly as it sounded, Jim could not resist.
“Oh, they’re loaded, officer. Just not in the way you’re talking about.”
Kat smiled. Her eyes gave that I-know-a-secret little girl look.
Jim watched Kat uncross her legs. She leaned forward toward him. Her breasts pushed at the body wrap.
“You’re right, officer. They do look like regular candles, but they’re not. They’re special candles. For working magick. You believe in magick don’t you, officer?”
Jim looked at Kat. Her eyes had that same weird look Martha St. Onge gave. Now, certain that she was the woman in Naples, without any proof, he was just as certain that Bruce had been lying to him. He blinked and broke eye contact. He always looked suspects in the eye, but this time he avoided looking directly into Kat’s eyes. He also ignored her question.
“Ms. Connors, would you mind getting your identification for me?”
Kat grabbed the little pieces of pink cloth and stood, managing to maintain a minimal degree of modesty.
“Do you mind if I change while I’m in there?”
“No ma’am. I’ll wait right here.”
Kat walked around the sofa, past Jim, and went into the guest room, closing the door half way as she passed through. Jim tried to keep his eyes away from the door while Kat changed, but found himself justifying his need to peek with the thought that it might not be safe to let Ms. Connors completely out of his sight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Baalzaric knew that Trooper Demore wa
s sneaking glances toward the guest room while Kat dressed. When it came to beautiful women, Baalzaric’s experience told him that all men, at least those who were not homosexual, or eunuchs, were weak and frequently stupid.
Kat removed the wrap and reached for the yellow sundress. She had moved over enough for Demore to see her through the half-open door. She glanced back and saw him looking at her naked body.
Baalzaric watched Demore’s face turn red when he realized that Kat had caught him peeking. Demore glanced away but he had revealed a weakness. A tiny lapse of discipline. A lapse that Baalzaric would not forget. A lapse that Baalzaric would gladly exploit if necessary. Trooper Demore would never complete his investigation, Baalzaric would see to that.
***
Kat came out of the guest room dressed in the yellow mini-sundress and a pair of matching, yellow, low-heeled sandals. She held her driver’s license up for Jim to see, but did not offer it to him, forcing him to step in close to take it from her hand. In the air-conditioned room, he felt the warmth emanating from her sun-soaked body.
The license gave her name as Kat Connors. The picture showed a younger version of the woman standing in front of him. Jim reached for his notebook and pen, careful not to brush against her. Kat stood still, inches from him. A game of sexual “chicken.” Nevertheless, he did not step back. He took the driver’s license and copied the information. He kept his voice level and controlled.
“Ms. Connors, are you employed?”
“Yes,” she said.
She took a deep breath, causing her breasts to swell toward Jim, intensifying the little game and further reducing the space between them.
“And where do you work?”
She leaned in slightly. The distance between Jim and the yellow material holding her breasts shrunk to millimeters.
“I dance at a club near the Air Force base. The Midnight Oasis. Ever been there, officer?”
Jim shook his head, made a note of the information and held up her driver’s license. If she took another deep breath, her breasts would touch his chest. Jim had experience with these sexual games, just none playing them with a person of interest in a vehicular homicide.
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