My first stop back in town was at the Pontus Enterprises offices across the Seventeenth Street Bridge. The crowd of protesters was twice the size it had been two days before. I parked my Jeep at the far end of the parking lot as though I planned to visit one of the shops on the east side of the little shopping center. Strolling down the sidewalk, peering into windows, I made my way slowly toward the Pontus office. While I walked, I checked out the crowd. Most of them looked like well-turned-out housewives and their older children. Was it possible that someone in this crowd would have been angry enough about this development project to murder Nick? There were a couple of men in the crowd, but they looked like retirees in their pastel high-wader pants, and somehow couldn’t see either one of them perched on a bridge looking through a gun’s scope. Standing a little apart from the chanting masses was a middle-aged woman, her auburn hair cut in a neat pageboy. She was holding a clipboard and issuing commands like a general at the front. I stood on the perimeter of the group, looking for the strange older woman with the icy eyes I had seen before. I’d been scanning the crowd for no more than two minutes before Madame Generale was at my side.
“Hi,” she said. “Have you signed the petition?”
“Uh, no, see I’m really—”
“Are you a resident of the city of Fort Lauderdale?”
“Yes, but—”
“Well, as a resident, I’m sure you’ve seen the number of these awful towers that have been shooting up all aver town. Traffic is already unbearable, and we don’t have the infrastructure to support this growth. We’re all residents of the Harbor Isles circulating this petition to try to stop Pontus from building here. We want the city to seize the property under eminent domain.”
“You sound like an attorney,” I said.
“Ha!” she barked out, then said, “It’s even worse. I’m married to one.”
I didn’t really want to get involved with these protesters, but her quick smile and dimpled cheeks were irresistible. I stuck out my hand. “My name’s Seychelle Sullivan.”
“Kathleen Ginestra,” she said, sticking the pen in her mouth and her clipboard under her other arm. She then wiped her hand down the side of her jeans and finally took mine in a dry, firm grip.
“You know all these people?” I asked, indicating the crowd.
“Most of them.”
A woman carrying a sign that read build parks, not penthouses yelled, “Kathleen knows half of Fort Lauderdale!”
Kathleen turned her face aside, bunched up her features in a grimace, and then made a spitting sound. “I do not,” she said.
“Maybe you could help me if you know someone I saw here the other day. She was an older woman— elderly, really—wearing a white blouse, white hair all piled up on top of her head.” I motioned with my hands to show what I meant.
“You must mean Mrs. Wheeler. She comes around every once in a while to lend her support.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned in closer to me. Quietly, she said, “She’s quite the character, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, pausing to look around to see who was listening, “Mrs. Wheeler is pretty well known around the city and the port commission. She’s this really tenacious activist—been at it for about a hundred years. She fights all types of growth and development, and she’s been known to bring down some pretty powerful politicians in this town. Remember that business when the port commissioners bought themselves gold and diamond rings with public money? She blew the whistle on that.”
“Really? You seen her around here today?”
“As a matter of fact, she was here just before you walked up. I remember because she was saying something about next week’s commission meeting.” Kathleen was swiveling her head around as though counting her flock. “I don’t think she drives. Nope, I’m afraid she’s not here now, and I didn’t see which way she went.”
“Well, the name will help. You don’t know her first name?”
“Oh God, no. You know how it is. Some of these old broads would just die if you didn’t call them Mrs. Whatever. I’m sorry. I can’t help you with that.”
“The last name is more than I had. I don’t even really know why I want to talk to her. It was just something about the way she looked at me. She looked like she had something she wanted to tell me.” That wasn’t a very clear explanation, but it was the best I could give the woman. I wanted to thank her, so I stuck out my hand. “You want me to sign that?”
Kathleen’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. “Uh, sure!” She thrust the clipboard into my hands.
I’m not much of a political type, but I liked this woman, and if she could keep my town from becoming a concrete canyon, I was behind her 100 percent. After scrawling my name, I turned and headed for the doors to Pontus Enterprises. The look on Ms. Ginestra’s face as I entered the building was priceless.
The Pontus secretary, Roma, was at her station at the reception desk, and when she looked at me over the rims of her red glasses, I felt a little like a specimen pinned to a board.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to see Leon Quinn.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, not exactly. But—”
“I’m afraid Me. Quinn has appointments all day today.”
“And I’m afraid you’re going to have to figure out a way to get me in to see him.” I hated it when secretaries got pissy with me. Just because I was standing there wearing jeans, boat shoes, a baseball cap, and a T-shirt commemorating the 1999 Blues Fest at the Downtowner didn’t give her the right to treat me any differently than the women who walked in wearing polyester power suits and pumps.
She looked up at me and narrowed her eyes, trying to decide how to respond.
“Look,” I said, realizing that force was probably not the way to get past this bouncer. “I came in here the other day with Zale Pontus. My name is Seychelle Sullivan. You might remember me—I’m a friend of the family. I figure if you’ve worked for Nick for all these years, you must know Molly pretty well, and that’s what I want to see Mr. Quinn about.” Actually, I also wanted to find out about the status of my salvage claim, but I didn’t think that would get me in his door. “I assume you’ve heard she’s been arrested.”
She pressed her lips together in a thin line and sighed. I saw it in her face when she made the decision. Her eyes flicked to the clock on her desk and back to me. “Mr. Quinn has an appointment in twelve minutes.” She reached for the phone. “Let me see if he will see you.” She punched three numbers and swung away from me on her swivel chair so she could speak out of my earshot into the phone. I walked across the office and pretended to examine the model of the TropiTowers. A toy-sized version of the TropiCruz IV rested at the dock.
“Miss Sullivan,” Roma called. “Please follow me.” By the time I’d turned around, she had her back to me and was disappearing down the hallway. I hustled to catch up. As she opened her boss’s door, she said in a husky whisper “Ten minutes.”
Leon Quinn did not bother to get up from behind his desk, but he did point with a flourish to one of the chairs opposite him. He had a cloth napkin tucked into his collar, and a large Styrofoam container rested on his desk blotter. He mopped at his moustache before he spoke. “Miss Sullivan,” he said, the tightness evident in his voice. “How nice to see you again.”
I ducked my chin and said, “Mr. Quinn.”
“So, you’re here about Molly? It’s unbelievable.” He pulled the napkin free and wiped his fingers one by one. “What kind of idiot cops think she shot Nick? Huh?”
“I don’t know.”
“First, they can’t even enforce this restraining order and Nicky gets killed. Then they arrest Molly? Blakas!”
“I’m just worried that with Molly in jail, the cops will think it’s over. They won’t look for any other possibilities. I thought I’d nose around a little. See if I couldn’t find something to give to the cops to make them consider another
suspect.”
“But it’s so obvious,” he said. He waved his arms as he talked. I knew the stereotype that Italians talk with their hands, but I was learning that Greeks did, too. “This was about the casino gambling boats. About money. And pride. Perifania, we say in Greek. Saving face. The last time Nick and Kagan met they called each other names, got into a shoving match. Nick filed a restraining order against Kagan.” Quinn made his hand into the shape of a gun and pulled the thumb trigger. “Pow. The Russians had him killed.”
“Why are you so sure it was them?”
He spread his hands wide. “Come on. A head shot like that? That was done by a pro. And the Russians? They’re the only guys I know with connections like that.”
“So you’re saying that Ari Kagan is connected to the Russian mafia.”
“Honey, after what just happened to Nicky? I’m not going on the record saying nothing.”
“But the cops will say that wives have been known to hire killers to knock off their husbands—and ex-husbands.”
“Yeah, but not Molly.”
“No,” I said, “you’re right, not Molly.” I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk. “So what can we do to convince the police of that? Is there anything you can think of that would steer the investigation that way?”
“I already told that fat detective everything I know about Nicky.” He swiveled around in his big leather chair and looked at the framed photos on the shelf behind him. “We had such good times, me and Nicky.” He sighed. “I told that fat man all about Nick’s relationship with Kagan, how they fought, how they tried to steal from us. I told him that son of a bitch Kagan did it. He killed him. They just write in their little notebooks and let them get away with it.”
“What about some guy named Thompson who works on the ship? Do you know who that is?”
He waggled his hand in front of his face as though he were shooing away a fly. “We got more’n a hundred employees down there in Hollywood. I don’t know them all. Hell, I don’t even know half.”
“This was somebody Nick knew.”
“Nicky was a funny guy, miss. He’s wearing fuckin’ three-hundred-dollar shoes and designer pants and next thing you know he’s laying sod in the planters around the dock or down in the engine room gettin’ all greasy and sweaty with the engineer. Nicky knew everybody who worked for him. Me, I’m in the office all day. On the phone. Nick couldn’t stand being cooped up like that. You could go down to the boat, ask them. Why you wanta know, anyways?”
“Just curious. Zale said his dad used to talk about this Thompson. I’m reaching for any answers here. I really don’t want to have to call that kid in a couple of days and tell him his mom is still in jail.”
The door to the office swung inward just then, almost hitting the chair where I sat, and Roma was shouting, “But you can’t just go barging in” as Janet Pontus burst into the room. “Mr. Quinn, I’m sorry,” Roma said, “but she refused to wait until you—” Janet stepped between Roma and her boss so that Roma was talking to the woman’s back.
Janet Hunter Pontus was decked out in a candy apple-colored sweater with long sleeves and a deep V-neck that exposed her artificially tanned and swelled cleavage. She had blunt-cut bangs and shoulder-length platinum hair. Again, her pouty mouth was slicked over with lipstick the color of a divorcee’s new Corvette with clear coat.
“It’s all right,” Quinn said.
Roma nodded and backed out of the room.
“I need to speak to you,” Janet said in a soft, slow, deep voice, staring straight at Quinn. She was a petite woman with fine wrists and ankles, and the deep voice sounded like a ventriloquist’s joke.
Quinn stood. “All right.” He looked at me expectantly. I did not stand. “We were just finishing up here.” Janet took a small step backward as though noticing me for the first time. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, and the voice was suddenly high-pitched, feminine, and soft. She smiled at me and the impact was so strong, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back. She reached out her hand. “I’m Janet Pontus.”
Her grip was confident. “Seychelle Sullivan,” I said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The light seemed to go out of her eyes and her chin began to tighten. “Thank you,” she said in a near-whisper. Then she dug in her handbag until she produced a white tissue. “I get along fine for a few hours and the hurt almost goes away, and then it hits me again.” A single tear spilled out of her right eye and she dabbed at it so expertly, she didn’t even smear her makeup.
Quinn came around the desk and embraced her, kissing her lightly on the cheek. “There now. You’ve cried enough, honey.” He eased her into the chair next to mine, then returned to his seat behind the desk, but not before trailing his fingers across the back of her neck.
Janet ignored him and spoke directly to me. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just never going to stop crying.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I know what it’s like to lose loved ones.”
She sat in the other chair and fastened those blue eyes on me, nodding. “You, too? Your parents?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never knew my daddy, and mama died when I was still in school. My brother was all I had left. And then I met Nick. It was like I was given another chance to start a family. We had our whole lives ahead of us. So many plans. None of it will be the same without him.”
I watched her closely and tried to find any trace of the self-centered bitch that Molly claimed lived inside this body. I didn’t see it. She seemed to be talking in Hallmark platitudes, but that was because it was what she knew. Jeannie had pegged her, pretty, not too bright, self-obsessed but not very self-aware.
I turned back to Quinn and made a show of glancing at my watch. “I promised Roma I wouldn’t take more than ten minutes of your time. It’s just that there’s one more thing I wanted to discuss with you,” I said and looked over at Janet. “I’m not sure now’s the time . . .”
“Say what’s bothering you,” Quinn said. “Mrs. Pontus,” he nodded at her, “is an amazing woman. She’s stronger than she looks, and she has a good head for business. I’m very thankful for that given how things have turned out.”
“I wanted to talk to you about the salvage claim on the Mykonos. Have you discussed it with the insurance company yet?”
He made a big show of slapping himself on the forehead. “I knew there was something I was forgetting.”
“What about the boatyard? Have you been in touch with them? What kind of shape is she in?”
“I called over there this morning, and they said we were damn lucky. The water she was taking on was back around the shafts. The only other hull damage was cosmetic.”
I could sense Janet fidgeting on the periphery of my vision. Clearly, like most beautiful women, she didn’t like being ignored.
“Did the water reach the engines?” I asked.
“No, very little water damage. They said they might be able to put her back in the water tomorrow. I’ll contact the insurance company first thing in the morning and authorize them—”
“Leon, ” Janet said, then she turned to me and spoke in a quiet confidential voice. “It’s going to take him a little time to start including me in decisions like this. You know how men are.”
I looked at Leon, then back at Janet. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Mr. Quinn, I really do need to know the status of this claim. If you would like me to contact your insurance company directly, I’d be happy—”
“Miss Sullivan,” Janet said, “we’ll look into it and get back to you as soon as we can. I’m sure we’ll be able to reach an agreement shortly.”
“I’m a little confused here. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t see what you have to say about it.”
She threw back her head and laughed a deep, throaty laugh. Her platinum hair swung around her face when she lowered her chin and fixed me with a big-eyed look I w
as certain she had practiced in front of the mirror. “You don’t know? Don’t you watch TV? I’ve been all over the news lately.” She laughed that scratchy laugh again. “Go ahead, tell her, Leon.”
Leon stared down at his desk and smoothed his mustache with the fingers of his right hand. Then he cleared his throat. “Miss Sullivan, after his second marriage to Janet here, Nick rewrote his will. We filed that will with the court yesterday afternoon, and in it Nick determined that all his assets are to be equally divided between his wife and his son. Mrs. Pontus here,” he indicated Janet with his hand and a reverential nod of his head, “is now essentially my boss.”
XIV
By the time I pulled into the drive back at the Larsens’ place, it was after four and I was starved. No lunch and lots of driving can do that to me. But hungry as I was, I didn’t jump out of the Jeep and head back to my cottage. I sat in the driver’s seat and allowed myself time to think. I’d gone to Leon to ask him for help finding another suspect, and I walked out of there thinking that he looked the most suspicious of all. There was no doubt in my mind that Leon and Janet had slept together. Was it something that happened when the lawyer was consoling the grieving widow, or had it started while Nick was alive? If that was the case, the only thing that would have stood between him and his boss’s wife was the boss. Beauty-wise, Janet was quite the prize, but now that it appeared that she was going to be worth millions, it looked even more believable that Leon Quinn could have murdered his best friend in order to grab the whole jackpot.
Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) Page 13
