I followed and closed the door behind me. I stood over him, waiting for him to catch his breath, hoping for a return to lucidity, and feeling a bit sorry for the man. I had reacted to his assault without thinking, but it was never a contest, and I probably didn’t have to hit him the second time. He looked kind of pitiful lying there on the floor, and I felt like a bully.
His breathing became shallower, his eyes focusing on me. “Who are you?”
“I was telling you when you went all Rambo on me. I’m Matt Royal. I’m a lawyer, and I’m representing the woman accused of killing Nate Bannister. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?”
“You bastard,” he said. “I ought to call the cops.” He still had some fight left in him, or maybe just anger. He was lying on the floor, seething.
“Who do you think the cops will believe? A scumbag arrested twice for assault and battery, or an icon of the Bar, a lawyer of impeccable standing, the epitome of all that’s right and good in our society.”
“You have a pretty high opinion of yourself,” he said.
“Alas, I may be the only person in the whole world with that opinion, but I’m certainly not a scumbag.”
“Are you calling me a scumbag?” The feistiness was back.
“No, sir. I’m just pointing out how you might appear to an officer of the law.”
“Okay. Tell me why I ought to talk to you. You sucker punched me.”
“You swung first.”
“Yeah, but I missed.”
“Let’s look at the situation we’re in, Mr. Shorter,” I said. “I can just kick the shit out of you and call an ambulance, or we can sit down and have a rational discussion, just like regular human beings.”
“You think you can take me?”
“I already did.”
“You’ve got a point,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Get up off the floor and we’ll talk.”
“You’re not going to hit me again, are you?”
“Do I have to?” I asked.
“No. We’re okay.”
He pulled himself up and sat in a chair, massaging his side. “You pack a hell of a punch,” he said. “For a lawyer.”
“Why did you swing at me?”
“I don’t like lawyers.”
“Most people don’t,” I said, “but generally they’re at least civil to me.”
“I didn’t kill that bastard, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Why would I think that?”
“You’re here, and I was arrested a couple of years ago for taking a swing at Bannister.”
“Why did you go after him?”
“Did you take a look at this place?”
“Yes. A quick look.”
“It’s falling apart. The construction was shoddy and somehow Bannister managed to build on a lot that was too small. When the buildings on either side went up, they were built so close they ruined our view.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I’m what you call a trust-fund baby.”
“Big trust?” I asked.
“You think I’d live in this dump if it was big?”
“You could get a job.”
“I’ve tried that. Never worked out too well.”
“Why not?”
“Some people say I’ve got anger issues.”
“Was that the last time you saw Bannister? The day you hit him?”
“No. I saw him again about two weeks ago.”
“Where?”
“His condo. Downtown.”
That would explain his fingerprints in Bannister’s home. At least Shorter wasn’t lying. “How did that come about?”
“I called him. Made an appointment to see him. He told me to come to his condo.”
“Was anybody else there?”
“His assistant.”
“The assistant’s name?”
“I don’t remember. She was a young woman, a real fox.”
“Tori?”
“What?”
“Was her name Tori?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Wait a minute,” he said. “She gave me a business card.” He pulled out his wallet and riffled through it, pulling out folded pieces of paper, a couple of twenty-dollar bills, and several business cards. “Here it is,” he said, finally. He handed it to me. The name on the card was Victoria Madison.
“Why did you go to see Bannister?”
“Some of the owners here are threatening to sue him over the building problems. I thought I might be able to work something out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. A settlement.”
“Were you there on behalf of the other owners?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I guess you could say I was there on my own behalf.”
“I’m surprised.”
“Why? Oh, you’re kidding.”
“So,” I said, “why were you there?”
“I wanted to make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I offered to help him out if he’d buy this place back from me.”
“Did you give him a price?”
“Yes.
“Big price?”
“Reasonable price.”
“How reasonable?”
“I just wanted a little profit out of the deal.”
“How much profit?”
He took a deep breath. “I told him I’d sell it back to him for three times what I paid for it.”
“Little profit, huh?”
“Well, I think I ought to be paid for the aggravation he put me through.”
“Aggravation?”
“Yeah. I spent thirty days in lockup because of that bastard.”
“You hit him. Remember?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t have hit him, if he weren’t such a bastard.”
“That probably didn’t stand up too well as a defense in court.”
“No. You damn lawyers are too picky.”
“What was your part of the deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“What were you going to do in return for the money?”
“Oh. I told him I would join the lawsuit with my neighbors and keep him informed about what was going on.”
“A spy,” I said.
“Well, more like a consultant.”
“What did Bannister think of the deal you proposed?”
“He said he wanted to think about it. Said he’d get back to me.”
“Did the assistant have anything to say?”
“She was all for it. Tried to talk Bannister into making the deal right there.”
“Did you ever hear from him?”
“Not from him, but his assistant called me and said Bannister wanted to meet with me again.”
“When did you get that call?”
“A week ago Friday.”
“Two days before he was killed.”
“Right.”
“Did you set up the meeting?”
“Yeah. I was supposed to meet him at his condo on Sunday evening.”
“The same night he was killed.”
“Right.”
“Did you go?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“The neighbors set up the meeting with their lawyer for the same evening. I found out about it Sunday afternoon and called Bannister’s assistant. She told me it was very important that I meet with them as planned. I told her I needed to go to the meeting with my neighbors if I was going to learn anything that would help Bannister out. She was really pissed, but said Bannister would call me on Monday and reset our meeting. I never heard from him. Bastard.”
“You didn’t hear from him on Monday,” I said, “because he was dead.”
“Well, hell. I didn’t know that on Monday. I figured he was stiffing me.”
“Make you mad?”
“Damn straight.”
“What’d you do about it?”
“I tried to call him a bunch of times, but never got an answer.”
“Where was the meeting with your neighbors on Sunday evening?”
“Here. In the activity room. We had to bring our own chairs ‘cause that bastard Bannister never furnished the place.”
“Who was the lawyer you all met with?”
“I don’t remember the guy’s name. I can get it for you.”
“How long did the meeting last?”
“Four hours or so. Damn neighbors are boring as hell. They just wouldn’t shut up.”
“Were you there the whole time?”
“Yeah. I wanted to be able to give Bannister a full report.”
“What time did the meeting break up?”
“Around eleven.”
“Can you give me the names of some of the neighbors?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “Checking my alibi, huh?”
“Something like that.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My phone rang as I was crossing the bridge from Siesta Key to the mainland. J.D. “Hey, sweetie,” I said.
“You ever call me that in public, I’ll shoot you.”
“Not to worry. I don’t have a death wish, Detective.”
“That’s better. Got time for lunch?”
“Sure. Where do you want to eat?”
“Where are you?”
“Just leaving Siesta Key. I’ve had an interesting morning with Robert Shorter.”
“Who’s that?”
“The guy whose fingerprints were found in Bannister’s condo. The one who assaulted him a couple years back.”
“Sounds like fun. I’ve had a really big morning.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but you’ve got to buy me lunch to hear about it. Marina Jack?”
“Sounds good. It’ll take me thirty minutes in this traffic.”
“See you then.”
* * *
Marina Jack was a sprawling marina and restaurant that took up a lot of space on the bayfront in downtown Sarasota. The docks were full of boats and expensive yachts, some semi-permanent residents, some day-trippers who pulled their small boats into the slips provided for the restaurant, and others who stopped in for a few days while cruising Florida’s west coast. The restaurant was crowded with a mixture of boaters, business people, and professionals from the downtown office buildings.
J.D. and I were at a table overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway. The sun was high and bright and warm, the air still, the bay flat, a perfect day for boating. It made me miss my other love, Recess, which was tied to her dock behind my cottage. I had neglected her of late, and I think she resented it. I’d make it up to her. Spring was upon us, the weather was magnificent, and I lived in a boating paradise.
“Tell me about your morning,” I said.
“Linda Favereaux was Connie Pelletier’s daughter.”
“Wow. That is big news. Kind of changes things in your case.”
“It does, but I haven’t figured out how. Yet.”
J.D. told me what she’d found out about the midnight trip of James Favereaux, the evidence from the bridge cameras, her speculation about the timing, and the DNA evidence from New Orleans.
“Maybe,” I said, “James came home and found Linda with somebody else. Both nude. It could piss a guy off.”
“I thought about that, but James was only gone an hour. Surely, Linda wasn’t dumb enough to invite a boyfriend over while her husband ran out to get a hamburger.”
“Maybe she didn’t know her husband was coming back. What if he was leaving on a trip and forgot something and returned to the house? Or changed his mind about leaving and was coming home? She might have thought he was gone for the night and called her boyfriend.”
“Possible. But then what happened to the boyfriend, if there was one? Nobody’s come forward.”
“Might be a married man who’s not interested in having his name associated with the murder of his girlfriend.”
“You’re not helping, Royal. You’ve got more questions than answers.”
“Yes, but questions lead to answers and answers lead to truth.”
“There are times when you’re insufferable.”
“Like now?”
“Nah. You’re kinda cute when you go all philosophical.”
“The value of a liberal arts education.”
“I guess. But you’re right, you know. Something like that could have happened. There was indication in the autopsy report that Linda had recently had sex.”
“Any indication as to whom she had sex with?”
“No. She had been in the hot tub on the patio and the chlorine would have compromised any trace evidence. The autopsy showed no trace of semen.”
“If the boyfriend arrived right after the husband left,” I said, “they would have had an hour or so before he got back. Maybe they let the time slip up on them, or took up too much time fooling around.”
“Yeah. Maybe the boyfriend puts more value in foreplay than you do.”
“Ouch.”
“Just kidding. I’m a satisfied detective.” She laughed. Not the big one that shivers my timbers, but the little one, the one that tinkles like little silver bells, and melts my heart.
“What do you think about the connection between Linda and Connie?” I asked.
“I don’t know what to make of that. Connie lied, obviously. But why? What happened to cause her to deny that Linda was her daughter?”
“If Linda really was screwing around with Bobby, that would certainly drive a wedge between them.”
“Incest?” J.D. asked.
“We don’t know that Bobby was Linda’s father.”
“That’s a good point. I wonder if we can get the marriage and birth records from Louisiana. Linda had Bobby’s last name, so maybe he adopted her.”
“Time to call our buddy, Corbin,” I said. “See if he can turn up the records.”
“I’ve already called him about the DNA match. I’ll get back to him this afternoon about the family records. I think adoption records are usually sealed. We probably won’t be able to get them, but it’s worth a try.”
“Do you think the murders of Connie and Linda are connected?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but it seems to be a reasonable assumption. Connie was killed after we went to see her about Linda. And she was Linda’s mother. Why would that be a secret? Or important enough to kill Connie?”
“Another point to consider,” I said. “Connie was killed by what appears to be a professional hit man. Linda’s murder looked more like a crime of opportunity or passion, something that wasn’t planned. If a pro did it, wouldn’t he just have shot her? Like the one who did Connie?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. There’s really nothing that ties the murders together other than the family relationship and the fact that Connie was killed right after she talked to us.”
“The timing might have been nothing more than a coincidence.”
“Maybe so,” she said. “How did your morning go?”
“Pretty good, after I beat the crap out of the witness.”
“Right.”
“Actually, I did.”
“You’re kidding.”
I told her about the altercation. “It was just reflex. He swung, and I hit back.”
“I hate to tell you this, but that’s not a very good way to win friends and influence witnesses.”
“This time, it worked,” I said, and told her about Shorter’s meeting with Bannister and Tori and his alibi for the night of the murder.
“You didn’t accomplish a lot, then.”
“Well, maybe not a lot, but I did eliminate a suspect, and we found out that Tori wasn’t above a little illegal activity.”
“Have you heard from Gus?”
“I talked to him after you called. He’s on his way over here. Says he
’s got some news.”
“Good or bad?”
“Didn’t say. Here he comes now.”
Gus Grantham was a slender six feet of distinguished-looking manliness. He moved through the restaurant with an assurance that comes from the years of self-confidence that a badge and gun give a man. He was smiling as he approached. J.D. stood and hugged him. I settled for a handshake. He joined us at the table.
“Good to see you,” J.D. said. “It’s been a while.”
“Too long, J.D. I miss seeing a lot of the old people we worked with for so many years.”
“Do you miss being a cop?” she asked.
“Sometimes, but I like being my own boss.”
“You like the work?” I asked.
“About half the time. When I get a case like yours, it gets the juices flowing. I depend on lawyers for most of my work, and that means I have to take their crap along with the good stuff.”
“Crap?” J.D. asked.
“Divorces.”
“I see what you mean,” I said.
“Did you ever do any divorce work, Matt?” Gus asked.
“No. A lot of the guys who did criminal defense work did divorce as well. But it’s like my old buddy Bill Barnett once said, ‘In criminal defense you find the worst people on their best behavior, and in divorce work you find the best people on their worst behavior.’ When I wasn’t handling criminal cases, I did a lot of complex civil litigation. What do you know about why somebody decided to charge Abby with murder?”
“Okay. This came from a very reliable source, an old friend of mine at Sarasota PD. When the fingerprints first came in, Harry Robson caught Abby’s name on the list and took it immediately to the chief. Both of them realized that they had to dump the case on FDLE, or they’d face legitimate criticism for pursuing a case where the wife of the police chief in a neighboring jurisdiction was at least a potential witness. The file was turned over to FDLE with no recommendations about what or whom to pursue.”
Chasing Justice Page 13
