Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  But for the first time she could remember since becoming widowed, she found some fresh enthusiasm emerging, and decided there and then to help the young man as much as she could. After all, she did still care about the opportunity to appear on television again, and any resurgence of interest in the ‘Bike Radio Murder’ just might give her that chance.

  CHAPTER 26

  (THURSDAY, 18TH JANUARY, 2018)

  Media Interest

  D uring Oliver’s drive back to his temporary Plainfield home, his head was in a spin as he continuously churned over the events of the day, and what Mrs. Toporofski had told him before he’d departed from her house. She said she remembered a man leaving the vicinity of the crime scene in a pickup truck, and she also described hearing raised voices the same evening that Sandy Beach had been killed. Or so she thought. Oliver acknowledged that after a period of over three decades, and with Mrs. Toporofski currently in her later years, she may well have got some of her facts wrong. After all, the last thing she had said to him, quite emphatically, was that her memory wasn’t as good as it used to be.

  But very disturbing was the fact that apparently she’d told the same story to the police chief when he’d interviewed her after she’d discovered the dead body. Surely she should at least have had her statement submitted to the court, or even been called to testify in person, such was the relevance of her information, but Oliver had seen no mention of that in all the case reports he’d researched. Before today, he’d only come across Chief John Moores’s name, later to become a Governor, in the various newspaper reports he’d read. But now, according to Mrs. Toporofski’s description of him, he sounded like a bit of a dodgy character.

  Oliver decided that the raised voices Mrs. Toporofski thought she’d heard could have been Yakamoto and Beach arguing, although some sixth sense was telling him that that was unlikely. But if it hadn’t been Yakamoto’s voice, who’s was it? Maybe Oliver’s own wishful thinking was now playing a part in his personal summation of what had happened back then. He couldn’t tell. Regardless, he puzzled over who the driver of the truck might have been, if indeed there had been one. Was it possible for both men, Yakamoto and the truck driver, to have been present in the house at the same time? Why had Moores apparently ignored Mrs. Toporofski’s story? Maybe a copy of her statement still existed. If it did, Oliver knew that he would certainly like to read it.

  Pulling off the freeway and into a rest area, Oliver Googled Moores’s full name. His search revealed that although being found guilty of racism and corruption charges, Moores had only served a three-month suspended sentence, and was now apparently living freely in retirement in Chicago—about 200 miles from Indianapolis. It seemed, Oliver thought, that money really could buy you a get-out-of-jail card in this country.

  Could Moores’ conduct have influenced Yakamoto’s final fate? he wondered. Already drawing his own biased conclusions, Oliver reprimanded himself. He should remain impartial and stick to the facts. He would dearly love to interview Moores if at all possible—it could make for great reading in his blogs and newspaper columns. But he doubted whether such a request would be granted—so for now he would put that idea on the back-burner. Maybe at some point in the future, he’d attempt to find Moores’ email address and send a carefully-worded message. But for the time being, as soon as he arrived home, he really must concentrate on the writing that he was obliged to do. He liked to think that there were people out there eagerly awaiting Young Sherlock’s next instalment. After a quick coffee, Oliver returned to the freeway for the remaining part of his journey back to Plainfield.

  By the time Oliver arrived home at the Dickinson’s, he was thankfully by now much more composed. Everyone was out, so he went straight upstairs, sat at the desk in his room, and began to work. He kept looking at his iPhone just in case emails had come in, answering the appeal that had been published in yesterday’s papers—but he was disappointed to see that there was nothing. However, he had received an email from Ursula’s niece, Siobhan. It was rather gushing with comments about London, England in general, how much she was looking forward to going there, and how much she appreciated Oliver putting her in touch with his boss at the East Anglian Chronicle. She was also keen to visit Scotland during her travels, and asked where in England it was. She ended with a request to meet up with Oliver, and buy him a burger and soda as a big thank you. Oliver was shocked at her apparent geographical ignorance, but remembered how insular some Americans could be. He’d heard of some who had lived all their lives never having left their own state, let alone crossing their international border.

  There was also an attachment to Siobhan’s email. “Woah!” he mouthed in wonder as he saw the accompanying photo of the stunningly beautiful Siobhan. He instantly forgave her for not being more informed about the countries of the United Kingdom. “I wouldn’t mind giving her a private lesson in geography,” he said to himself with a grin. He ogled her dark, long flowing hair, incredible figure squeezed into tight jeans and clinging white t-shirt, blue eyes and warm smile. For some time, Oliver found it difficult to focus his mind on his writing tasks, especially while he was thinking how he should reply to her last paragraph in which she also offered to help him with his investigations.

  “Concentrate, Oliver!” he told himself firmly. He felt certain that if he met up with Siobhan in person he’d find it extremely difficult not to fall for her hook, line and sinker—and that wouldn’t be particularly good for his relationship with his hosts. As he continued to work, occasionally gazing out of the window at the garden and pool below, he knew his loyalty ought to remain with the Dickinson family, and particularly Sam, of course. So, his reply to Siobhan became another email he decided to put on hold, for the present at least.

  After writing up the day’s ordeal for the newspaper column, Oliver was pleased with the way he’d included some comedic value to the waterbed story—although he hadn’t seen any funny side to it earlier.

  He emailed his column off to Ursula at the Terre Haute office, and also Steve at the Indianapolis headquarters. He then wrote the draft of his blog that he’d finish off and upload to the East Anglian Chronicle’s website later. By now he was feeling quite exhausted, and with dinner not for another hour when the others were due home, he decided to take a short nap—but not before checking out Google Maps, in preparation for the following day’s planned visit.

  Sixty minutes later, he was awoken from a deep slumber in which he had been dreaming that he was floating on an air mattress in the middle of a calm river, suddenly transforming itself into a massive waterfall. The knock at his door, followed by Sam calling him down for the evening meal, roused him with a sudden start, his forehead covered with beads of sweat. “Err, thanks Sam, I’m, err, just coming,” he mumbled in response, somewhat dazed.

  At the dining table and now feeling much more alert, Oliver related the day’s adventures to his captive audience of three. He then informed them that, very early the next morning, he planned to make the three-hour drive to Joliet and visit the old prison building there. “You know it’s a tourist site now, don’t you?” asked Chris. Oliver did know, but nevertheless he wanted to get a feel for the place first hand. He wanted to imagine how it must have been for Yushi during his time as an inmate, and what better way than to actually go there? He had another plan up his sleeve. While in the same vicinity, south of Chicago, he’d attempt to also go to nearby Stateville Prison, in the hope he would learn more about Yushi’s cellmate, referred to in Gold’s study as ‘ASSASSIN’.

  The only information Oliver had about the cellmate was his name—M.J. Emanuele—and Oliver was aware that by now he may no longer be residing at Stateville anyway. He may have been moved to another prison, or released, or indeed may have since passed away. He was sure, though, that it would be easier to make such enquiries in person rather than by phone. For some reason that even he didn’t understand, he decided to keep these intentions to himself.

  Shortly after finishing their meal of jerk c
hicken and salad, Kerry left the table to fetch the ice-cream dessert. While she was in the kitchen, Oliver’s phone rang. Knowing how rude it was to talk on the phone while a meal was in progress, at first he ignored it, but it kept ringing. Eventually, he discreetly looked at the screen in case it was Ursula or Steve, or someone from back home in Essex. Oliver saw that it was none of those, and just showed up on the screen as a number he didn’t recognise. Perhaps it was a member of the public responding to the newspaper ad appealing for information! He was desperate to pick up. Sensing Oliver’s anxiety, Chris made it clear he didn’t mind the call being taken at the table. “Go ahead, Oliver,” he gestured with a wave of his hand. “It could be important.”

  Kerry returned with a large tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream and began sharing it out. Pretending not to eavesdrop, the others continued talking among themselves, while at the same time straining intently to hear Oliver’s side of the conversation. They picked up on him agreeing to meet the caller in Paris the day after next, and then they waited patiently for Oliver to elaborate once he’d hung up.

  “Was that a lead?” asked Sam, hopefully.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Maybe something better though!” Oliver answered, hardly able to contain his excitement, but trying to play it coolly. “That was WTHTV-NEWS10 channel in Terre Haute. They want to do a five-minute piece with me outside the murder victim’s house. It will be broadcast live, and again later on the six o’clock news!”

  Sam’s mouth gaped in amazement. “So not only are you in the papers, you’re gonna be a TV star as well! That’s fantastic! We can get NEWS10 here,” she squealed.

  Oliver restrained his glee. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say ‘TV star’, Sam. I bet they’re going to goof me up as some British eccentric pretending to be Sherlock Holmes. But it’s worth doing, I guess. You know what they say about any publicity being good publicity. Perhaps it might increase the chances of getting some public response. One never knows unless one tries these things, does one?” he asked in a self-mocking British accent.

  They all laughed, and Sam was super-impressed with Oliver’s logic and confidence. This time she was keen to accompany him to Paris, and she made it clear. Oliver shifted awkwardly in his seat as he remembered the side of the phone conversation that hadn’t been audible to the others. The caller, a researcher from the TV channel, had explained to him that she’d been prompted to call Oliver by a friend, none other than Ursula O’Mahoney, who had suggested that her niece also work as an assistant on the project.

  So Siobhan would also be joining Oliver in Paris. “Err, I’m sorry, Sam,” Oliver answered slowly, trying to work out a good enough reason why he needed to go alone. “They, err, want me to go to a meeting with the producer after the filming. I’ll probably be gone all day. Maybe next time, eh?” Sam slowly nodded in agreement, obviously disappointed. But by repeating the same phrase she herself had used once before, Oliver knew she couldn’t really argue. Although pleased that he’d been able to successfully deflect her request without raising any suspicion, he still felt guilty as he questioned his true motivations for not inviting her along.

  He thanked Kerry for the delicious meal and said he must now go upstairs to finish off today’s blog and get a good night’s sleep in readiness for an early morning departure to Joliet. Once the blog had been uploaded, he sent off a quick email to Siobhan, expressing how pleased he would be to meet her the day after tomorrow, and that he was very much looking forward to working with her. She must have been online at the same time, because almost immediately she sent a reply that simply read “Me too! Goodnight, Oliver”. As he was getting comfortable in his bed, Oliver’s heart skipped a beat before he promptly fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 27

  (THURSDAY, 18TH JANUARY, 2018)

  Payment Offer

  B y the time Marc Ozborn had awoken, it was already nearly midday. Nursing the hangover that had become a daily occurrence for much of his adult life, as well as some of his childhood, the first thing he did was to reach for the jar of instant coffee and put two heaped spoonfuls plus four sugar cubes into the only unchipped mug he owned, still dirty from the day before, while simultaneously switching on the kettle that was half-filled with yesterday’s water.

  He considered his plans for the day ahead, or at least what was left of it. It was true to say that life had suddenly and unexpectedly become easier for him quite recently, since he’d been left a modest sum of money. His one remaining aunt who had passed away over a year previously at her nursing home in Oregon had never had any contact with her nephew, and had wrestled between leaving her cash to a cats’ home, or keeping it in the family. After due consideration, she decided on the latter, and left her savings to her only surviving relative. After her passing, it had taken many long hours for the lawyers at Goode & Harte to sort out the complicated probate. The firm eventually managed to track Ozborn down, two thousand miles across the country, but not without creating a new set of problems.

  During the time when such efforts had been made to locate Ozborn’s present whereabouts, a newly-employed post-graduate at Goode & Harte had inadvertently alerted Melody Goddard of Ozborn’s address by sending out the wrong set of documents to her—the one meant for him. When she opened the package and studied the contents, she wondered whether Ozborn would ever think to financially contribute towards Coldplay’s upbringing and, to put it mildly, she was very sceptical. So, she decided that as soon possible in the new year, she’d take the matter into her own hands by paying Ozborn a visit, accompanied by her husband Stephen. Together, they would try prodding at the man’s guilty conscience, if indeed he had one.

  Eventually, when the firm’s mishap had been rectified, and Ozborn’s inheritance was finally settled, he found himself to be richer overnight by precisely $56,204.79. He thanked his lucky stars for the best, and only, Christmas present he’d had for as long as he could remember, but he soon found that his windfall hadn’t come without some downside.

  Within two weeks, Ozborn’s bank balance was by now already down to under £20,000, and even he had been surprised by quite how quickly money flowed away with no effort at all. Firstly, there had been a number of debtors who became increasingly riled by his excuses for non-payment, and Ozborn sensed that their hints of violence could very soon become more than the idle threats he’d been so expert at avoiding, so he reluctantly settled up. He also promptly blew a stack of money on some fancy clothes and shoes. Of course, it was about time for some new furnishings for the trailer, including a black leather sofa and, while he was at it, why not get a new stereo system? he thought.

  Then, as well as paying for a brand brand-new Ford pickup in cash, he decided he would fix up his beloved old Dodge truck that was parked behind his home, up on jacks for the previous 14 years or so.

  Despite the vehicle now being 46 years old, its engine still started after a splutter or two when he turned the key. But the muffler and tailpipe were now completely shot with rust, and the wheels had been removed and thrown in the back, their worn-out tyres showing hardly any tread.

  Mice and vermin seeking shelter had made good use of the interior’s roof lining and seat padding. To anyone else, the vehicle would have been considered a wreck—but Ozborn, always fond of it, had hoped that one day he’d get it fixed up and back on the road.

  Now he at last had the financial wherewithal to do just that, and he was looking forward to getting on with the job—just as soon as he was sober enough. As he finished off his coffee, he thought that perhaps today would be the day he’d make a start.

  As it turned out, today was also the day Coldplay’s guardians, along with their little dog Blaise-Pascal, decided to pay a visit. And right when he was in the middle of listing the parts he wanted to collect from the local Dodge dealer later that day.

  When the strangers first turned up, Ozborn refused to even acknowledge the existence of a daughter. He certainly didn’t want to heed their suggestion to do “the right thing,” as they’d put it, �
��for the child”. Why should he have to contribute to her wellbeing? That was up to the State, surely, and the responsibility of her guardians—not him.

  Their suggestion of financial contribution really rattled him, and his anger increased. He even warned them he had a gun and wouldn’t be afraid to use it if they didn’t vacate the vicinity of his property. They did go to leave quickly after that, but not before slamming down a batch of six colour photographs of the little girl. The top ones pictured her blowing out five candles on a cake at her recent birthday party, and others were taken when she was much younger, although Ozborn wouldn’t have known that because he point-blank refused to look at them. Antagonised and angry, the selfish Ozborn made a kneejerk reaction in the slight hope it might ease his inner demons, but mostly just to get the couple off his back and encourage them to go away without any further discussion.

  “Five grand,” he stated abruptly. “Take it or leave it. That’s all I’ve got left,” he lied, just as Melody and Stephen were getting ready to walk away, empty-handed. “Come back this time tomorrow and I’ll have the cash—then I don’t want to hear from you ever again. Understand?”

  “We understand alright,” answered Melody. “You’re a cold, heartless bastard, Marc. And one day, you’ll realise that $5,000 is diddlysquat. Sure, it’ll help with some essential purchases for the poor little cherub, but what that young girl—your daughter—really needs to know, is that she has a father who loves and cares for her.