“And the second reason?” I asked.
“I think whoever killed Bannister may have also killed Linda Favereaux. And there’s no walking away when you kill one of our agents.”
We talked for another hour. J.D. gave him a copy of her file and answered all his questions. They compared the names on Michel’s list with the names J.D. had turned up. There was no connection that we could see.
I went over the details of the Bannister murder, as I understood them this early in the case. I told Katrina and Devlin about what seemed to be a professional hit on Bannister, and the unprofessional manner in which Linda Favereaux was killed. I also told her about my suspicions that Abby Lester was the target of a frame-up, and unless Abby was involved in the drug business, I could see no reason why anybody would want to involve her.
Finally, we called it quits. It had been an informative evening, and a pleasant one as we sat with good company under a great Banyan tree, the rays of a full moon shining through its branches, and the whisper of the anemic surf gently assaulting the nearby beach.
We were walking toward the parking area that adjoined the patio. “One more thing,” J.D. said. “I need to talk to Mr. Favereaux.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Devlin said, “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“We’re supposed to have full cooperation here,” J.D. said.
“We’ve given you everything we have.”
“Except Favereaux,” J.D. said.
“And we’d give him to you if we could.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s in the wind.”
“Gone?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know where he is?”
“No. He met our agent at the Atlanta airport and was taken to the safe house up near Blue Ridge, Georgia. When the Atlanta agent showed up the next day, Favereaux was gone.”
J.D.’s voice was tinged with sarcasm. “Didn’t that seem a little strange?”
“Of course. We’re looking for him. A big manhunt, actually, but the security is real tight on the whole thing.”
“Any sign of struggle at the safe house?”
“No. It looks like he just walked away.”
“I know Blue Ridge,” I said. “It’s kind of isolated. How would he have gotten out?”
“We don’t know.”
“Any cell phone activity?” J.D. asked.
“He left his phone in the safe house.”
J.D. was angry. “Don’t you think it would have been important for me to know about this? You said your agency had him.”
Katrina said, “I’m sorry, J.D., but the word came down from on high in our agency that we were not to volunteer that information unless you brought it up. You brought it up and we told you. We did have him, but we lost him.”
“Do you think he killed Linda?” J.D. asked.
“No.”
“Then why would he run?”
“We don’t know. The safe house may have been compromised, and he decided he had to leave,” Katrina said.
“Then why no contact with your agency?” J.D. asked.
“He might be concerned that there’s a mole in our agency, and if he contacts us, the bad guys will find him.”
“Or,” I said, “he might be a rogue who killed his own daughter rather than be found out.”
Katrina shook her head. “That’s the one that keeps me awake at night.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Is Favereaux the killer?” J.D. asked. We were sitting on my patio overlooking the bay. It was nearing ten, and the moon was high and full, its soft light adding a mellow glow to the mangrove islands that poked out of the water.
“Maybe, but I can’t see a man who has gone to such lengths to protect his daughter all these years killing her. It doesn’t fit.”
“Maybe somebody else killed Linda and Jim knows who it was. He may be after the killer.”
“He wouldn’t have to do that alone,” I said. “His agency would have given him all the help he needed, and would have sanctioned his killing Linda’s murderer. Those agencies take care of their own.”
“I think he’s the key to solving my case. Either he killed Linda or he knows who did. If I can’t find him, this case is going to end up in the cold case files.”
“Based on what Katrina told us, Favereaux may have some bearing on Abby’s case as well. If Bannister was part of the drug business, that might explain his murder.”
“For whatever reason, Favereaux is running from his agency. If they can’t find him, we don’t stand a chance.”
“We’ve got another big problem. What do we do about Bill Lester?”
“I noticed that you left out the stuff about the chief while we were talking to Devlin and Katrina.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how Bill fits into all this, or if he does, and I don’t want a bunch of government snoops looking into it. Not yet, anyway. I guess we could run Bill’s tag number through the bridge camera system, but I don’t really think that’s a good idea.”
“I thought about that,” J.D. said, “and decided it’s a very bad idea. Bill goes through the reports from that system every morning. He’ll know somebody was looking for his car. And even if he missed it somehow, I can only get that stuff through Sharkey. He and the chief are tight as ticks, and I don’t think Sharkey would do it.”
“Would you, if you were in Sharkey’s shoes?”
“Not in a million years.”
“There you have it then,” I said. “Scratch that idea.”
“We may be making a mountain out of an ant pile,” J.D. said. “All we know, or even have some reason to believe, is that Bill was having an affair with Maggie Bannister. I don’t even want to think that’s true, but even if it is, that’s a long way from putting a bullet in Bannister’s brain.”
“It would give him motive,” I said, “and he would certainly have the means, a pistol. And if Maggie and Bill were each other’s alibi, it would give either one of them opportunity.”
“Maggie had the means because Bill gave her a pistol and she sure had motive. So why don’t we think of her as the killer, rather than Bill?”
“Good point,” I said, “but even if Bill—if he was the boyfriend—wasn’t the shooter, if he gives Maggie an alibi, and she was the murderer, then he’s at least guilty of aiding and abetting.”
J.D. slapped at a mosquito that had landed on her arm. “This isn’t getting us anywhere, and I’m getting eaten alive. Let’s go in.”
* * *
The phone rang just as I drifted into sleep. It was almost midnight. Bad news coming, I thought. I picked up the phone.
“Matt, it’s Gus. Sorry about the late hour.”
“What’s up?”
“Somebody tried to kill Robert Shorter a couple of hours ago.”
“The witness?”
“Yeah. You awake yet?”
“Just about. What happened?”
“My contact at Sarasota PD just called. Said somebody took a shot at Shorter as he came out of a bar on Siesta Key.”
“Was he hit?”
“Yes,” Gus said. “Not bad. He took a round through his left upper arm. Didn’t hit anything important. The paramedics took him to the emergency room at Sarasota Memorial.”
“Has anybody taken a statement from him?”
“A detective talked to him, but he said he didn’t know why anyone would try to kill him.”
“Was there a fight in the bar, anything like that?”
“Not according to my source. The bar is pretty upscale, so they don’t get a lot of that sort of thing.”
“Was Shorter drunk?”
“No. He came in late, had a couple of beers, and told the bartender he was going home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Shorter often stops by late in the evening.”
“Do you know if they’re going to keep him in the hospital?” I asked.
“Overnight. They’ll probably cut him loose tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I’ll call Harry Robson early, see if he can get us in.”
“Thanks, Gus. Call me if Harry says no. Otherwise, I’ll meet you at the hospital at ten.” I hung up.
J.D. was awake. “Gus?”
“Yeah. Somebody took a potshot at Robert Shorter tonight.”
“You think it’s connected to Abby’s case?”
“Probably not. Given Shorter’s personality, I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of people wanted to shoot him. Maybe I’ll know more after I talk to him in the morning.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I was up before six on Wednesday morning, sitting on my patio with a cup of coffee and a granola bar. Some breakfast. A slight wind blew from the south, rippling the surface of the bay with small whitecaps. In the distance, the dark mass of the mainland was crowned with the glow of the rising sun, still hidden below the horizon, giving the illusion that the world was on fire.
I had awoken with thoughts of Robert Shorter. People like him stumble through life in a fog of anxiety, their anger lurking just below the surface, ready to rise up at the least perceived slight. They make enemies at every turn, but most of those contacts are fleeting; the guy in line at the grocery store, or the lady he cut off at a traffic light. Not the kind of people who would try to kill him.
Could the shooting of the night before be connected to Abby’s case? Possibly. I had begun to think more about why Bannister’s assistant would be so insistent on Shorter meeting with Bannister on the very evening that he was murdered. Could that have been an attempt at a set-up? A way to tie Shorter to the murder?
But if Shorter was supposed to be framed for the murder, where did Abby come in? Once Shorter called on Sunday to cancel the meeting set for that evening, the killer would only have had a few hours to set up Abby. And the emails supposedly sent by Abby had come days earlier. Maybe she was the fall back position, plan B, in case something didn’t work out to make Shorter appear to be the killer.
And, as J.D. had pointed out, Maggie Bannister had more reason than anybody to want her husband dead. Then, like an errant lightning strike, the thought hit me. What about inheritance? How much money would Maggie inherit upon her husband’s death? They were headed for a divorce and the court would set the division of property. Maggie would certainly not get as much from a divorce decree as she would if Bannister died. Even if Bannister had tried to leave his estate to someone other than his wife, the law would require that Maggie be given a substantial portion of his assets, regardless of the language of the will. I should have thought of that before now. I’d have to check it out.
* * *
I met Gus at Sarasota Memorial Hospital shortly after ten that morning. The investigation of the shooting the night before had come up empty, and the detectives had decided it was just a random event, a shooting with no motive, or a case of mistaken identity. A man wearing a ski mask shot Shorter at close range in the parking lot. The bullet went straight through his arm and couldn’t be found.
There was no security guard at Shorter’s hospital room, an indication that the investigating officers did not expect anybody to take another shot at him. “You looking for a client?” Shorter asked as I walked into the room. “Damn ambulance chasers.”
“I’m worried about you, Mr. Shorter.”
“Right. Call me Rob.”
I introduced him to Gus and said, “Who shot you?”
“Not a clue.”
“Do you think it was just a random shot?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill you?”
“Sure, but not one of them would have the guts to try it. What’s it to you, anyway?”
“I’m wondering if it’s connected to my case,” I said.
“I don’t see how it would be.”
“Did it ever occur to you that somebody may have been trying to set you up for the murder of Nate Bannister?”
“Nah. I don’t see that.”
“Think about it,” I said. “Bannister’s assistant, Tori, seemed hell-bent on getting you to Bannister’s condo so that you’d be there at the exact time that he ended up dead.”
Shorter seemed a bit shocked by that thought. “You think so?”
“It fits. You were on record with a couple of assault charges, and one of them was against Bannister. If you’d been at the condo on Sunday evening, it wouldn’t have been too hard to set up a scenario where you shot Bannister and then ended up dead yourself. They’d have found two bodies instead of one. Murder-suicide. Case closed.”
“Even if that were the case, what would it have to do with somebody taking a shot at me last night?”
“Maybe they were tying up loose ends. Getting rid of the possibility that you might figure out that you were supposed to be the patsy.”
“That means they might come back after me.”
“Yes. Do you have someplace to go when you get out of here? Someplace other than your condo?”
“I’ve got an aunt who lives in Nokomis,” Shorter said. “I could stay down there for a while, I guess.”
“Might not be a bad idea.”
* * *
Gus and I drove east on Highway 60. We were on our way to see Tori Madison. The development that Bannister had been working on was a large condo complex situated on rolling ground sloping down to a lake a few miles south of downtown Lakeland. There were six buildings in various stages of completion, clustered around an open space in which sat two mobile homes that served as the construction offices. We went into the largest trailer and entered a reception area. An attractive middle-aged woman sat behind a desk that bore a nameplate identifying her as Shirlene Girardin. “May I help you?” she asked.
“I hope so. I’m Matt Royal and this is Gus Grantham. I’m a lawyer, and I’ve been engaged to look into matters surrounding the death of Nate Bannister. We’d like to speak with Ms. Madison, if she’s available.”
Ms. Girardin picked up her phone and spoke quietly into it. She stood, smiled, and showed us into the inner office.
Tori Madison was in her mid-twenties, but her eyes said she’d lived for a hundred years. They were dark and wary, suspicious, unfriendly, and hard as diamonds. She had blond hair tied in a French twist, her face set off by startling thick black eyebrows. She was medium height and had a lush figure. She was wearing clothes that emphasized her body, and her voice, when she greeted us, was throaty and cultivated. She did not look like the little girl who’d grown up in that dismal trailer park in Tampa.
“I’m in a bit of a time crunch,” Tori said brusquely. “I wish you’d made an appointment. How can I help you?”
“I’m representing the woman accused of killing Mr. Bannister. This is my investigator, Gus Grantham.”
Those eyes hardened into a stare that reminded me of an army sniper I’d once watched as he lined up his human target, a very bad man who’d been responsible for the death of many innocents. Hers were as focused and deadly as that soldier’s, and I had no doubt that Tori was contemplating some horrible end to our meeting. “You said you were looking into Nate’s death. You lied.”
“I didn’t lie,” I said. “I am looking into the facts surrounding his death because I want to find out why someone is framing my client for his murder.”
“Your client?”
“Yes. Abby Lester.”
“I don’t have any idea who would do such a thing,” Tori said. “Besides, I’m pretty sure your client killed my boss. No need for anybody to try to frame her.”
“I’m thinking you probably know some bad people who might have had a reason to kill your boss.”
A look of consternation crossed her face. She held it just a bit too long. “I am a respectable businesswoman. Where in the world do you think I’d meet such creatures?”
“The Palm Paradise trailer park, maybe,” I said, “or a bar called Buns.”
Tori’s fac
e closed down. It was immediate, from a look of shock straight to blankness. She stared straight ahead. There was no movement in her features, not even a twitch. It was as if she’d turned to stone. Then she took a deep breath and her lips parted, closed again, and parted. She reminded me of a stroke victim who was trying to talk, but couldn’t. Then, suddenly, her body relaxed and she smiled. She’d made the decision not to tough it out. “You got me. What do you want?”
“I want to know who killed Bannister,” I said.
“Your client.”
“Do you know Abby Lester?”
“I’ve met her, but I can’t say I really know her.”
“Do you have any reason to believe she was having an affair with Bannister?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you believe that?”
“I know she spent a lot of time in Nate’s condo, and he told me they were lovers.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“A couple of weeks before he died.”
“How do you know she spent a lot of time at his condo?”
“I saw her there several times.”
“What time of day?”
“Usually mid-morning.”
“Did you ever see her there in the evening?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see Abby at Mr. Bannister’s on the weekend?”
“I don’t think so. She was probably home with her husband.”
“Other than what Nate told you, do you have any reason to believe they were lovers?”
“One time when I came over, I heard the shower running, and Nate told me that Abby was in the bathroom. Another time I got a glimpse of her through the bedroom door.”
“Are you sure the woman you saw was Abby Lester?”
“Positive.”
“Are you aware of some emails that were supposedly sent by Abby to Bannister in the days before he died?”
“Yes.”
“What do you know about them?”
“Nate showed them to me.”
“Did he tell you they came from Abby?”
“He didn’t have to. They were signed by her.”
Chasing Justice Page 17
