“When did you see Allie again?”
“I haven’t.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Well, I guess we’ll purge this file now. Mrs. Elliott, if you wouldn’t mind, could you forget I called? We’re not supposed to make calls like this.”
“Of course, Agent Erwin,” said Mrs. Elliott. “Thank you so much, and I’m sorry for being snippy with you. I know you were only doing your job, suspecting my daughter of things that shall go unmentioned. Thank you so much again for your help—and your discretion.”
“You bet, Mrs. Elliott. Thank you very much. I wish you the best.”
“Goodbye.”
Whew, that was close. Not to mention weird.
The picture is getting clear. I think I’m actually figuring it out on my own. But I need one more piece of the puzzle.
I went back online and again looked at the list of bereaved relatives of the late Tiffany Connors, who was buried at the Eternal Pine Cemetery in Lakewood Ranch. I again visited the websites IntelLookup and BeenChecked, both confirming that Tiffany’s mother Jean Kirkwood—formerly Jean Connors—formerly Jean Thurlow—formerly of Newark, New Jersey—currently lives at 48101 Cherry Farm Road in Lakewood Ranch, which is just north of Sarasota.
According to her Facebook page and various links, “Jeannie” Kirkwood is a real estate agent. With her big smile and her piled-high blonde hair in a red blazer, she posed in front of a beige stucco house with a Spanish-tile roof, her right hand extended in a voila! gesture. She’ll find the right home for you in beautiful Lakewood Ranch, guaranteed.
She was the same woman in the picture with thirteen-year old Allie. I right-clicked and saved the picture, and then zoomed in on her eyes. They were big and nearly glowed behind a weathered face with lots of cover-up and maybe some airbrushing.
I called Luther and asked for a favor—two favors, actually. He agreed, but only if I promised to attend service on Sunday. I reluctantly said yes.
I called Bruno and asked him if he wanted my shifts at Cap’n Jack’s for the next few days. He gladly accepted. Nobody seems to be throwing manila envelopes full of money at his head nor hiding duffel bags full of millions in his closet.
I went online and reserved a rental car for the morning. Then, I walked over to T.J. Maxx at Fifth and Alton and bought a discounted clearance sport coat to take the edge off my appearance, as well as to hide my gun.
One missing daughter found. One still to go.
THIRTY-THREE
IN THE MORNING, I PICKED UP A BLACK TOYOTA COROLLA rental from the Avis on Collins Ave at 23rd Street. Then, I followed Google Maps’ directions through Little Haiti and Miami Shores to I-95 North, then onto I-595 in Davie, which became I-75 all the way across the state of Florida. Three-and-a-half hours later, I was in Lakewood Ranch.
I got off at the Fruitville Road exit and followed the Google voice as it directed me to the Eternal Pine Cemetery. I pulled in to an empty parking lot in front of a tiny but elegant gate. There were a lot of pine trees. I wondered which one was the eternal one. Nobody was in sight anywhere.
I got out and walked through the gate, my footsteps oddly loud on the soft grass in the hot morning sun, joined intermittently by the croak of a tree frog. The headstones were the flat uniform kind, rows of identical gray marble. Three had flowers recently placed on top of them.
It took a while, but I located the right one:
TIFFANY JANE CONNORS
JULY 19, 1998 – AUGUST 27, 2011
I bowed my head, my hands clasped in front of me. I thought maybe I should say a prayer, but I’m not sure I remember how. So I stayed silent and listened to the tree frogs.
After a minute, I sat on my haunches and touched the smooth headstone. It was cool, even in the direct Florida sunshine.
“Found you,” I said and patted it. “For real this time.”
THIRTY-FOUR
I GOT BACK ON I-75 UP ONE MORE EXIT TO UNIVERSITY Parkway and followed it to Lakewood Ranch Boulevard, where I turned left, then left again onto Ranch Club Boulevard and right onto Cherry Farm Road. The sky was that bright Florida summer gray with a hot wind kicking around but no rain.
It was a suburban development, somewhat recent, a living tribute to beige stucco. Endless rows of McMansions with red Spanish tile roofs fronted perfectly mowed lawns behind wide sidewalks and islands. There was an identical pool under an identical cage-like structure in every back yard. Not shabby by any means, but the houses looked like they had been manufactured on an assembly line and clicked into place like giant Lego pieces. I wondered if anyone ever walked into someone else’s house by accident.
48101 Cherry Farm Road had lawn sprinklers on high in a wide arc, feeding perfectly uniform blades of grass in front of two flower beds, each with the obligatory palm tree. I parked on the street, walked up the long driveway and along the path to the coral front door, which was framed by two large white pillars. I rang the doorbell.
No answer.
I rang it again. Nothing. I looked at my phone. 12:45.
I drove to a nearby shopping plaza built to look like an old Main Street in a real town somewhere else. I parked and walked around a fake city hall in front of a fake monument surrounded by park benches on which nobody sat.
Between a pizza shop and a hair salon was the real estate office where Jeannie Kirkwood is listed as an agent. The girl behind the desk was about twenty-two with brown hair and freckles. She wore a red blazer and a name tag that read Becky.
“Good morning,” she said with a bright smile and a happy lilt in her voice.
“Good morning,” I said. “Is Jeannie Kirkwood in?”
“No, I’m sorry.” She sounded genuinely sorry. “But can I help you with anything?”
“Well, I was talking to Jeannie about a property over on Ranch Club Boulevard. Can you tell me when she’ll be in?”
“Um,” Becky said, twirling her hair, “let me check.”
She got up and disappeared around the corner. I looked around. There was only one other agent at her desk, an older woman with short hair and bifocals in a red blazer that was three sizes too big for her. She tapped at a computer with two fingers and ignored me completely.
The girl returned with a plump woman in her fifties with big brown hair and the haggard face of a truck driver. She carried glasses in her right hand and a ream of papers in her left. She wore a red blazer over a white blouse with black pants. Her name tag read Helen Whitney – Manager.
“Jeannie isn’t here,” said Helen Whitney – Manager.
“Oh,” I said. “It’s just that I had spoken to her about a property over on—”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re selling,” she said. Her voice was sharper than a chef’s knife. “Jeannie Kirkwood hasn’t listed a property with us in years. Whatever you’re peddling, we don’t need it. Now, if you’re really interested in property—and I doubt you are if you’re looking for Jeannie—then Becky here can help you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Jeannie is listed on your website and—”
“Do you know how many agents work out of this office? Thirty-five. Do you know how many actually sell homes? Four. I’d love to take the slackers off the site, but the corporate office has its rules. Now, is there anything we can do for you in terms of real estate today?”
“No. Sorry. Truth is, I’m looking for Jeannie.”
She slapped the ream of papers against her substantial hip.
“My God,” she said, making Becky jump, “what magic does that woman have? I’ve been married twice to two scum-of-the-earth losers but that Jeannie has men like you walking in here at least once a month looking for her. I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”
“Excuse me,” said Becky as she slunk away and disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m here on a legal matter. I just need to serve some papers to Mrs. Kirkwood, that’s all.”
Helen’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, a process server? That’s a new one. Look, maybe you’re telling th
e truth. Maybe you’re not. Either way, I don’t have time. Jeannie Kirkwood is usually at Linksters Tap Room this time of day, but you’d better hurry”–she looked at her watch—“she’s probably already got her teeth into somebody by now and headed to his place. Try again tomorrow, but get there before noon.”
Helen Whitney – Manager turned and disappeared around a corner.
“Thank you,” I said to nobody.
The older woman with the short hair and bifocals kept tapping with two fingers. I walked out and back to my rental car.
THIRTY-FIVE
LINKSTERS TAP ROOM WAS IN ONE CORNER OF A LARGE square strip mall that had no pretensions of being a fake Main Street, although it felt fake anyway. The bar was half-outside and half-inside. I walked in and around but didn’t see Jeannie Connors.
I thought about asking, but the smell from the grill reminded me I hadn’t eaten since Miami. I sat at one of the outdoor tables and drank two beers with a medium-well burger and fries, served with a bright smile from a sweet girl named Vanessa.
I asked her if she knew Jeannie Connors. She did. I had just missed her, but Vanessa said she’d likely be back tomorrow. I drank another beer and left a big tip before walking back to my rental car.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a silver Audi A5 scooting out of the parking lot. My hand involuntarily tapped the gun on my hip.
I got in the Toyota and looked at the clock. 2:45 p.m. I drove back to Jeannie Kirkwood’s house on Cherry Farm Road. I rang the bell again while looking around. Nobody answered. Nobody peered out of their windows at me. Nobody even tried to shoot me.
I got back in the car and wondered how long it would take for Jeannie to do what I surmise she’s doing, if Helen Whitney – Manager is correct, that is.
I drove around some more. I followed University Parkway to its end, went south on Highway 41, and then back around in a big square loop out Fruitville Road and back up I-75. I didn’t see a silver Audi A5 again, but I had the unmistakable sixth sense I was being watched.
An hour later, I was back in front of Jeannie Kirkwood’s house a third time. Nothing had changed. I waited some more.
An hour later, I looked at my phone. 4:45 p.m. The neighborhood sprang to life somewhat. A man walking his poodle with a bag of dog poop in his hand looked at me with squinted eyes. A mother with three kids arrived home next door. She carried a baby out from a white SUV while a boy about four blew bubbles and a girl about three screamed her head off.
At 5:57 p.m., a gray SUV pulled into Jeannie Kirkwood’s driveway. It parked and the lift-back went up to reveal a grocery bag. I got out of the rental car.
A blonde woman about forty-five got out and walked toward me walking toward her. She had a big smile. She wore lots of makeup over a face that up close had more wear than noticeable from the online pictures. Her substantial hair was piled messily on top her head. She wore a loose white off-the-shoulder dress with a faint flower print. Her tanned legs glistened. They were nice legs.
“Hello, Mrs. Connors,” I said.
She looked me up and down, the smile growing wider. Her eyes popped big. Yep, those are definitely Allie’s eyes.
“Kirkwood,” she said. “Jeannie Kirkwood. I remarried and re-divorced. Long story, hun. And call me Jeannie, for God’s sake.”
“My name is Titus,” I said.
“Oh, of course,” she said. “I remember you, hun. You’re that feller from Atlanta, right? You fly planes.”
“No. I’m from Miami. I’m a, uh, private detective.”
“Oh, right,” she said with a big laugh as she took the grocery bag out of the back of the SUV and closed it. The grocery bag contained three bottles of wine and nothing else. “I’m sorry, hun. I have a bad memory. I meet so many people being a real estate agent and all. Oh, I remember you. It’s so good to see you.” She moved right up to me and planted a kiss on my face while squeezing her body into mine and running her hand up my back. I whiffed an odd mix of alcohol, perfume, and sweat. “So glad you stopped by.”
Then, she turned and swung her substantial hips to the front door and unlocked it. I stayed still. She opened the door and turned back to me.
“Well, don’t just stand there, stranger,” she said. “Come on in and we’ll catch up.”
Feeling like I had wandered into a scene from the movie Memento, I followed her inside. It was a tastefully decorated home with all the basics where they should be. The perfectly matched suburban mix of modern and classic decor. Simple, unadorned, ready for anyone to move in, more like a show home than a place actually lived in.
“Last time you were here, hun,” she said as she put the bag on a large counter that separated the kitchen from the living room, “I probably called myself Mrs. Connors because I was mad at my ex-husband. But don’t you worry. There ain’t no Mr. Kirkwood. He ran off with the daughter of the bitch across the street. I took care of her, let me tell you. Sorry, hun. I babble sometimes. You must remember that about me.”
“Of course,” I said.
She unscrewed the cap off a wine bottle and took out two glasses.
“Pinot Grigio okay?” she said. “I’m out of the hard stuff.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
She poured the wine and handed me a glass.
“Cheers,” she said and raised her glass.
“Bottoms up,” I said, raising mine. We clinked.
“Ooh,” she said with a wink, “you do remember me.” She downed half her glass in one gulp. I took barely a sip.
She held her glass between her sizable breasts and looked up at me. She squinted.
“You’re name’s not Titus,” she said.
“It isn’t?” I said.
“No, it’s Branson. Or Brandon. Or Brad. I’m right, right? God, I could swear you fly planes. I remember your uniform with the stripes on the shoulders. But you say you’re from Miami and you’re a police officer.”
“Private investigator.”
“Hm,” she said and finished her drink. She poured another. “So, I thought about changing my name back to my maiden name Thurlow, but Thurlow is so stuffy. Jeannie Thurlow. I always hated that. My third grade teacher always said ‘Miss Thur-low’ in this big ol’ nasty voice.” She laughed again and ran her hand up my chest like we were old lovers. “Nope, just don’t work for me, hun.”
Her words slurred together. She squeezed my shoulder muscles.
“My, but you fill out that sport coat in a thuggish sort of way,” she said. Her hand moved to my neck and fingered my longish hair at the nape.
“Have you heard from your daughter?” I said.
She froze for a moment. Then, she laughed again.
“Hayley?” she said. “Was she here when you were here last? She was with that tattooed bearded boy she calls a man, right? I’m sorry about that. No, I haven’t heard from Hayley. She’s up there in Lake Heron in the boonies.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, playing along. “What was his name again?”
“Vernon.” She finished another half-glass and threw her head back laughing. “White trash name. Hick boy who shoots possums and eats squirrels. God, and that beard. I never got the whole big long beard thing.” She poured another glass of wine. “You ain’t drinkin’ fast enough, hun. Come on, catch up with me.”
“What was Vernon’s last name again?”
“Shores,” she said with a laugh. “Vernon Shores. If Hayley marries him, which I’m sure she’s done by now, she’ll be Hayley Shores. Sounds like a condo on the beach. Sign up now for your own timeshare at Hayley Shores.” She laughed herself silly again and slapped my knee, squeezing my thigh.
“How about your other daughter?” I said. “Heard from her?”
Her face dropped. Her hand left my thigh. She backed up an inch.
“Ginny?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said. “How’s Ginny?”
The air had changed. Jeannie Kirkwood shook her head and put her glass down. She took a deep brea
th and looked around the house like she was seeing it for the first time. She put both hands on her thighs.
“Ginny’s fine,” she said in a serious tone. “I haven’t heard from her in ten years since she married that rich man and moved up north. Did I ever mention Ginny to you? I never talk about Ginny.”
Nice family.
“Wait,” I said, pretending to remember, wondering how far I can push this. “No, it wasn’t Ginny. You have a third daughter. The youngest one. Tiffany, right?”
She took another deep breath, stood up unsteadily, and walked past me around to the other side of the counter. The room suddenly felt like a cement truck was pouring concrete into it. I pushed things too far again, didn’t I? I’ve got to learn to be more subtle.
“Tiffany is dead,” she said in a voice as cold as a bag of ice. “Wait, wait, wait. Who did you say you are again?”
Uh-oh. Definitely pushed it too far. I stood up. She moved to her right and reached down into a cabinet. I glanced at the door and backed up a little.
“My name is Titus,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.”
“Uh-huh,” she said with a tone of finality like she made a decision. She shook her head again as if to clear away the alcohol. “What are you looking for?”
“Not what. Who. I was hired to find a girl named Allie Hayes, and I’m pretty certain I know where she is.”
At the name, I thought both of Jeannie Kirkwood’s eyes would explode out of her head. I had planned to take out the pictures and try to establish some positive emotion with them, but what she did next changed my plans fast. She reached down and lifted a double-barreled shotgun, pointing it directly at me.
Miami Burn (Titus Book 1) Page 23
