Sink, Swim, Die

by Jay Giles

  “I could go to the bank examiners.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You could. It would be your word against ours. The deciding evidence, as you just heard from Jessica, would show this was a personal matter. You’d lose.” The last two words he delivered as a threat.

  I stood, gave him my broadest smile. “Well, so much for trying to resolve this between us. See you in court, Tim.”

  That earned me a disgusted look.

  At the door, a thought occurred to me. “What about the boat?”

  He blanked for a moment, before the wheels started turning. “I told you the bank has no connection to that boat.”

  Mistake, I thought as I left the bank. Possibly for the last time. The whole meeting had been so depressing; I stopped on the way back to the office and bought a quart of raspberry chocolate chip ice cream.

  I was eating out of the carton, half an inch from the bottom, when LeeAnn waltzed-in, a changed woman. She still had big hair, but the dated bouffant was gone. Somehow, without teasing or backcombing, Anton had managed to give her hair fullness and height in a sleek, modern way. Under that new hairdo, however, was a worried face.

  “What’s the matter? You look great.”

  Her lip quivered for a moment. “I know. I love it. How am I ever going to explain it to Billy Jean?”

  “I told you, blame it on me.”

  “I would, Will. It’s just I don’t think I can go back to Billy Jean now that I’ve been with Anton.” She closed her eyes and purred. “I’ve been transported. He was magical.”

  Anybody who could do that to LeeAnn, I wanted to meet.

  “So your next appointment is with…”

  “Anton,” she said, leaning over the desk, and peering into my ice cream carton. “Save any of that for me?”

  “A little.” I handed her a spoon from my desk drawer.

  She looked at it, frowned. “There’s no telling when this was last washed, is there?”

  To my knowledge, never.

  She shrugged, spooned out a big bite. “That’s all I want.” She licked it gone. “Gimme your spoon, sugar, I’ll wash them.”

  From the kitchen she hollered, “I’m assuming your eating a whole tub of ice cream means your meeting didn’t exactly go hunky-dory.”

  “What were you able to learn from Anton?”

  She came back in the room, eyes sparkling, hand on her hip. “Well,” she said, “prissy missy Sloane bought Anton a Porsche 911. How about that?”

  This guy must be really good. “Why?”

  “Goodbye gift. Told him, she wasn’t coming back.” She grinned. “She said even if she did, he wouldn’t recognize her. Kinda odd thing to say, don’t you think?”

  Maybe, it was the sugar rush. Didn’t seem odd to me. It made perfect sense.

  Chapter 16

  Miami. Three Days Later

  I was queued up in Starbucks behind two rollerblading Amazons in skimpy bikinis. How skimpy? Their elbow and kneepads covered more. Both woman had their hair tied in long ponytails, wore big hoop earrings, and smelled of sweat and coconut scented sun tan lotion. One was checking her iPhone, the other kept adjusting her top. The barista took his own sweet time with their order so he could properly ogle their ample assets.

  I was Mr. Nondescript. I had on a black Orlando Magic ball cap, white long-sleeved tee shirt, khakis, and wraparound Maui Jim’s. I wore sun tan lotion, too, but mine didn’t have a fruity smell. The Amazons ordered coffee with all sorts of shots. I got a large decaf and carried it to the al fresco dining area in front of the store and found myself a table with an unobstructed view of the modernistic four-story building across the street, The Miguel W. Sosa Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery Center.

  I’d done a little research on Senor Sosa. Magic Miguel, as he was known, was Miami’s plastic surgeon of choice for the vain, rich, and famous. He’d gotten his start working on actresses appearing in Mexican soap operas, and had moved on to A-list American TV and film stars. I’d called to see if I could schedule a consultation with Dr. Sosa for a Rhinoplasty and was laughed at. Didn’t I realize there was a ten-month wait? Hype is one thing, but a wait that long means demand. For there to be demand at the prices that man charged, Miguel truly had to be magic.

  So here’s what I theorized had happened.

  Sloane with the help of his mysterious private investigator, Bruce Willis (who had to be Rodrigo Moreno), concocted a scheme to smuggle diamonds into the country. Sloane probably intended to use the money to make right the San Marco loan and whatever other chicanery he had been up to at the bank. Mrs. Sloane had other plans. My guess was she got Willis/Moreno to double-cross Sloane. She knew Sloane would be in Sarasota to see the Venetian and she—not Su—was the one who gave the shooter the when and where to do the deed. If I was right, and Heather was an accomplice to murder, she’d want to change her appearance so she could disappear with Moreno and the $100-million, or if they split, go her own way with $50-million. She’d want someone good to do her make over and I was betting all my chips it was Magic Miguel.

  I’d brought two things with me today—a Nikon with a telephoto lens and John Grisham’s Runaway Jury. The camera was to get a photo of Heather as she was entering or leaving the center, proof of her involvement. The book was to ease the boredom. I had no idea how long I’d have to bask in the bright Florida sun before I caught a glimpse of her. Could be days.

  I took a sip of coffee and watched a black stretch limo pull into the parking garden on the left side of the Center. The limo slowly made its way to the Center’s entrance under a porte-cochere, midway back from the street. I lifted the camera to my eye, watched through the telephoto lens as the uniformed driver parked, walked around the car, and held open the door for his passenger. A man. I put the camera back on the table, took another sip of coffee, returned to my book, and waited for the next patient.

  Three hours later, I’d seen seven people arrive, three people leave, none of them Heather Sloane. I’d gotten a muffin to snack on and was reading and nibbling when someone sat down abruptly at my little table.

  Annoyed, I glanced up from my book, saw a big floppy brimmed straw hat. When the hat tilted back, I gasped in surprise.

  Su.

  Not a happy Su, either. Her mouth was a harsh line, her jaw clenched in anger. “What are you doing here?” She whisper-hissed.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  Her eyes blazed. “You have to leave before they see you.”

  “She’s here isn’t she? Heather Sloane. And Moreno’s with her.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Will. This isn’t a game. They’ll kill—” Her head turned suddenly, her gaze on a man who had walked up to our table. “Pico,” she said nervously.

  Pico didn’t look like a threat to me. He was a kid, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with a round baby face, a buzz haircut, and an almost there moustache. He had a grin that showed two Chicklet-sized front teeth and was wearing a silly-looking, little red Pork Pie hat with the brim turned up. It went badly with the beige linen sport coat he wore over a wife beater. Had the hat not made him look like such a goof, I might have noticed he had his hands buried in his sport coat’s side pockets.

  He said something to Su in Portuguese that prompted a heated exchange. The grin vanished from Pico’s face, as he and Su cast several intense looks my way.

  I didn’t like the way either of them looked at me. It was a he’s-gonna-be-the victim kind of look. Sweat popped out on my forehead.

  Whatever was being said, Su heard enough. Her hand shot up, halting an irate Pico in mid-sentence. His face went all pout. Guess he wasn’t used to being shushed. Su turned to me. “I told him you don’t—”

  Fhutt. Fhutt. Su’s body twitched, her head—mercifully hidden somewhere under that floppy hat—hit the tabletop with a resounding thump. I saw a wisp of smoke floating from a hole in Pico’s jacket pocket. I heard people shouting, screaming, chairs shuffling, as they backed away from the shooting. I sat still as a departm
ent store mannequin, my gaze on Pico, sure I’d die any second, flinching only when he pulled his hand out of his pocket. Grinning at my fear, he reached over, patted me twice on the cheek before sauntering away. As I watched him disappear down the sidewalk, I caught the growing sound of police sirens. Someone must have called 911. Not that it mattered. Su was dead before her head hit the table.

  Two black and whites, sirens growling so loud you wanted to hold your ears, screeched to a stop at the curb. A third vehicle—an EMS van with a dented front fender—arrived right behind them. Uniformed officers, guns drawn, stormed the little outdoor patio area.

  I gave them a quick description of Pico, the direction he’d taken on foot. Two of them took off running. The other officer got in his cruiser, whipped it in a tight U-turn and headed after them. The remaining officer took me by my arm and led me inside Starbucks. He was going to stay closer than my shirt. Pico may have done the killing, but I knew how this worked.

  I was the suspect in-hand.

  Chapter 17

  I said very little to the responding officers, earning me a delightful ride in the back of a police cruiser to an interrogation room downtown. I could have been more forthcoming, but with my story, who was going to believe me? And if I told the officers at the scene any of it, they’d compare that to subsequent interviews, and hammer me on inconsistencies. Better to tell it once to the people in charge.

  The room they stuffed me in was a closet. Small, dingy, and cold enough that it could have stored meat. I watched the minutes tick off a round wall clock designed to look like a paper plate with a slice of peperoni pizza on it. The big hand had just passed over a peperoni when a mismatched pair of interrogators arrived. The one who seemed in charge was a short, squat Latino lady. She had shiny black hair in a bad Prince Valiant cut that didn’t go well with the shape of her face. She wore a blue sweater and darker blue slacks that were a size too small, giving her body the appearance of over-stuffed sausages. She was no Pillsbury Doughgirl, though. Her eyes and mouth were no-nonsense grim.

  The balding white guy with her looked like he wanted to make a career out of staying in the background. Tall, with narrow shoulders that pared to a paunch, his nervous eyes kept darting around, anticipating trouble. He wore a white dress shirt, cheap striped tie, and tan slacks. Probably only along to corroborate whatever the woman learned.

  They both settled in seats across the table from me. Balding white guy immediately scooted his chair back a little, putting his partner closer to me at the table, and getting himself out of her line of sight.

  “I’m Detective Parra,” she said, leaning forward and resting both her arms on the table. “With me is Officer Dahlmann.” Introductions over, she quickly read me my Miranda rights. When she finished, she fixed me in her gaze. “As an attorney, you know all this, don’t you Mr. Taggert?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you wish to have an attorney present?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re agreeing to talk with us?”

  “Yes.”

  Her brow—at least what you could see below the bangs—wrinkled. “Then why were you so evasive with the officers at the scene?”

  I got Mackay’s card out of my wallet and placed it on the table directly in front of her. She looked down at it as if I’d presented her with a dog turd. “You’ll want to talk to him, preferably in my presence. Once you have his background information and Mackay gives me the okay to speak, I’ll tell you what I know.”

  Her head snapped up, jaw tight, eyes narrow. “Are you telling me what to do?”

  “I’m suggesting you save us all a lot of time and trouble by making that call.”

  “Fine.” She snatched up the card and stormed out of the room. “Keep questioning him, Dahlmann,” she said over her shoulder before the door slammed shut.

  Dahlmann looked at me, his eyes widened, his mouth formed in a little “o”. I bet his heart rate jumped to 150 beats a minute. “Let me get you something to drink,” he said hurriedly and bolted from the room.

  Of course, Dahlmann never returned. It was almost three hours before Parra re-entered the room. This time she had a folder tucked under her arm and no minion trailing behind. She took her same seat, placed the folder in front of her and opened it. “I talked to Mackay. This is a pretty big mess you’re involved in. You better tell me your version of it.”

  She was still going to play it tough. Either she hadn’t talked to Mackay or she was thinking she could arrest me on some goofy charge.

  When I didn’t start gushing out information, sure enough, she upped the ante and threatened me. “The dead woman was wanted for murder. We could charge you with aiding and abetting. You could be doing at jail time.”

  I laughed at her. “Yeah, take that to a DA and see what he says.” Sometimes with a bully you have to bully back. I leaned forward over the table, got as much in her face as I could. “I told you I wasn’t saying anything until I talked to Mackay. Get him on the phone or I’m out of here.”

  I thought she was going to explode, her whole body was quivering, but she got out her cell phone, punched in a number, put it on speaker, and placed the phone on the table between us.

  When Mackay answered, she said, “This is Detective Parra. Sorry to bother you again, but Mr. Taggert insists on speaking to you.”

  “Lieutenant, I need to know you explained what happened in Sarasota to Detective Parra—”

  “I did.”

  “And that I cooperated with the police—”

  “You did.”

  “And I wasn’t suspected of anything or charged with anything.”

  “You weren’t. But, Will, what the hell were you doing in Miami? I know you think Angie Chung is innocent, but meeting up with her was a really bad idea.”

  “That’s just it. I didn’t plan on meeting her. I came to see if Heather Sloane was here having plastic surgery, because I think she’s involved with the—” I stopped. The news about the diamonds hadn’t been released and I didn’t know if Mackay has shared that part with Parra. “—the you-know-what.”

  “The diamonds? Yes, I briefed Detective Parra on that, too.”

  “So while I was watching the plastic surgeon’s office to see if I could spot Heather, Su shows up and tries to warn me away. While I’m arguing with her, this guy Pico, appears out of nowhere, talks to Su in Portuguese and shoots her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mackay said. “I know you cared for her and that had to be horrific for you, but you shouldn’t have been there. You’re not a policeman. If you had suspicions about Heather Sloane, you should have contacted me.”

  “You’re right, I should have. But this was such a shot-in-the-dark, I thought you’d dismiss it. I figured if I had proof, photographic proof of Heather changing her identity, then you’d have sufficient grounds to question her. I never did see Heather, but for Su to have been there, Heather had to have been there, too.”

  “If she was, she’s been scared off. Who knows where she is now? That’s why you should have brought this to us.” He paused. “So here’s the plan moving forward. They’re going to keep you in protective custody tonight, while they look for Pico.”

  “Pico’s long gone. Besides, if he wanted to kill me, I’d be dead now.”

  “Possibly, but let’s err on the side of safety. It’s just for tonight. They’ll release you in the morning and then I want you to return to Orlando. No more freelance police work, okay?

  “I hear you.”

  “Good. If you get any other crazy hunches about this, anything at all, call me. Don’t try and do this by yourself.”

  After I assured him I’d be a good boy, he rang off and Parra pounced. “Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

  When I was finished, her questions started. Midway through, Dahlmann returned and handed me a bottled water. Quick look at my watch—four and a half hours. “Where’d you go for this? Key West?” I gave the top a hard twist, chugged a third of the bottle.

  My barb
didn’t rattle him, but Parra gave me a look that said How dare you interrupt me. Her questions increasingly focused on the diamonds. When she’d wrung as much information from me as she thought she’d get, she said, “Kenny and Matt will take you to the safe house and stay there overnight with you. They’ll bring you back here in the morning.” She stood to go. “I’ll let them know you’re ready for transport.”

  Matt and Kenny turned out to be two seven year olds in adult bodies. Matt was wiry with a freckled face and a wispy blond goatee. Kenny had bad ache, a perpetual smile, and a 50-inch waist. They were obviously best buds, and sitting in the backseat of the unmarked Crown-Vic on the way to the safe house, they regaled me with banter about their dating exploits, drinking, action movies, and video games. I tuned it out as best I could.

  The safe house turned out to be the end unit of four side-by-side townhouse condos, all featuring the same red brick façade with fake stone accents. The only touch of individuality was front door color. Ours was a bilious purple. Each house had a few straggly foundation plantings, a small grassy front yard, and a narrow concrete driveway leading to a single-car garage.

  Matt used a remote to open the garage door, drove the Crown-Vic in, and hit the remote again to lower the door behind us.

  Inside, on the ground level, there was a multi-purpose room with faded lawn furniture piled in a heap in the center. Sliders, partially hidden by blue vertical blinds, revealed a small, fenced-in backyard. I followed Kenny and Matt up the stairs to the second floor, an open concept living/dinning/kitchen area. Living space to the rear, kitchen with island in the middle, dining area facing the street.

  They bee-lined it to a big greenish-blue over-stuffed sectional that faced a wall-mounted 40-inch Samsung flat screen. Wires hung down from the set to an Xbox 360 that rested on the floor. In front of the sofa was a dumpster-worthy rectangular coffee table, littered with empty Bud Lite cans and scarred by water rings.