by Danny Lopez
After she paid, Brandy walked out. The valet ran off to get her car. She glanced at her watch, tossed her hair to the side, struck a pose: one foot forward, one to the side, showing off those fine, tan, muscular legs. She took quick inventory of the area around her, left then right. Like maybe she was trying to see if there was anyone who might recognize her. A couple of minutes later, the white Maserati drove up with a low rumble. The valet hopped out and stood by the door with a goofy smile on his face. She tipped him, leaned into the car, then walked to the rear and put her bag in the trunk. She ran her hand over her mane of black hair then got in the car and drove off toward the Tamiami Trail exit.
Tessa walked out the door. I followed, coming out of the building two doors down. Tessa joined me. We walked back to the main entrance to where the valet was standing, still looking to where the Maserati had disappeared down the driveway. “You got my keys, friend?”
He pointed at me. “Red Subaru, right?”
I nodded.
He walked slowly back to the valet station, pulled my keys off a hook, handed them to me, and pointed in the opposite direction of where the Maserati had gone. My old red car sat like a joke at the end of the circular drive.
I gave him a five-spot and didn’t wait to see if he was happy with the tip. There was no left turn out of the Tamiami Trail exit. She had to be going south.
“We’re gonna follow her?” Tessa asked when we reached the Subaru.
“I don’t know. Let me think.”
“So why were we waiting here for two hours?”
“It was a lead, okay? I didn’t know where it was going to go. It happens.”
“So Liam’s stepmom having an affair means nothing.”
“We don’t know for sure if she’s having an affair.”
“Seriously?”
“She’s probably driving home,” I said. “Sometimes you find something, sometimes you don’t.”
“Well that went nowhere quickly.”
I looked toward downtown where a large crane was moving slowly over the row of mega condos in the bay front. “We have to find Jaybird.”
Tessa glanced at her phone. “I have to be at work in half an hour.”
Just as I was about to get in my car, an older cream-colored Toyota Land Cruiser climbed up the driveway to the entrance of the hotel. On the door was the sign: Sun n’ Surf Adventure Kayak Rental.
“Keith. Fucking. Peterson.”
“What?”
“Brandy Fleming’s having an affair with Keith Peterson.”
Tessa looked back at the entrance. Keith got in his SUV, tipped the valet, and the Toyota started down the driveway toward Tamiami Trail, right blinker flashing.
“I have to go to work.”
I pulled out a twenty and handed it to Tessa. “Take an Uber.”
“What?”
“I have to follow Keith, then I’ll come by the Salty Dog.”
“Are you serious?”
I stepped on the gas just as a black Mustang convertible came up the drive to my right. I slammed on the brakes. Our bumpers stopped inches from each other. An older man got out of the Mustang. I backed up the Subaru, shoved it into first, and sped around the motherfucker and down the driveway. When I turned on the Trail, I got the red light. I was stuck in the shadow of the new Westin, searching past the intersection where the road curved along the bay. No sign of Keith’s Toyota.
CHAPTER 16
WHEN I GOT the green light, I weaved through the traffic along the curve of Sarasota Bay. The sailboats bobbed gently on the windless day. To my left, the wall of condos separated me from downtown. But there was no way. By the time I came to where Tamiami Trail and Washington Boulevard came together, it was clear I’d lost Keith before we even got started.
I went a little farther and took a right on Hillview Street just after the hospital and pulled over at a spot in front of the Pacific Rim restaurant.
What the hell was I doing?
I was chasing too many tails and it was leading nowhere. I had to prioritize. I took a deep breath, went through each problem one at a time: Brandy Fleming’s affair was not what I was supposed to be investigating, but the fact that it was with Keith Peterson counted for something. Maybe there was something there. Maybe not. But I could always catch up with Keith at Turtle Beach. I didn’t have to chase him.
Finding Jaybird was now priority number one. He was the one closest to Liam. He was probably Detective Kendel’s witness. He saw Liam going out in the kayak. So, Jaybird either saw Liam the night he died, or he was lying, which pushed him to the top of my list of suspects.
And then there was Terrence Oliver. I imagined he had the most to gain from Liam’s death as the new sole owner of Beach City Holdings and all the properties. Or maybe they just had a falling out, a business deal went bad, a difference of opinion on buying or selling a property. Or just plain greed. I’d read too many crime stories where business partners double-crossed each other for control of the company—or for a few dollars more.
Or maybe my imagination was taking me on a long ride to nowhere.
* * *
I drove home and browsed the property records on the County Appraisers website for Liam Fleming and Terrence Oliver. Nothing. Neither of the two men owned a damn thing in Sarasota County—at least under their own names. But when I looked up the records under Beach City Holdings, I hit pay dirt. The company owned a decent amount of acreage in east Sarasota County where farms and ranches were being turned into subdivisions. The company also owned some very nice property on Siesta Key: Liam’s cottage, a few lots south of there, near Midnight Pass, a beachfront lot south of Turtle Beach—a place that would probably be washed away in the next hurricane—two houses at the end of Beach Road just north of Siesta Village, as well as the apartment building where Tessa lived. All together there had to be at least fifty million in real estate—probably more.
I pushed my chair back and stared out the window at the empty lot where Dieter & Waxler were getting ready to build The Majestic. Their real estate man, Alex J. Trainor, was poised to make a real nice chunk of change. I was never very good at math, but nine floors with at least four units per floor at say, a million plus per unit.
Yeah. Real estate was gold in this town. That was a hell of a lot of motivation right there. Terrence Oliver just moved a notch above Jaybird on my suspect list.
I tried getting ahold of Detective Kendel again, but got more of the same: unavailable.
I called Brian Farinas, my old friend and handy-dandy-lawyer.
“No,” he said flat out before I’d even asked.
“But—”
“You only call when you need something. And I can’t right now, Dex, I’m working.”
“Please.”
Silence.
“It’s important, Brian. I swear.”
He sighed.
“Detective Fenton Kendel.”
“What about him?”
“He’s giving me the runaround.”
“And?”
He was lead investigator in a case I’m looking into and—”
“Active case?”
“No. They ruled the drowning accidental. The victim’s father asked me to look into it for him, make sure it was on the up and up.”
“And you think it’s not …”
“Feels like it. The report states the victim was in a kayak, but there was no kayak found. The responding Sheriff’s Deputy said Kendel got the info from a witness, but it’s not in the police report.”
“You think they’re lying.”
“I don’t know. The report is incomplete. I’d like to talk to the witness.”
“And you want me to do what exactly?”
“You’re a criminal lawyer. You spend a lot of time at the courthouse. Maybe you can find Kendel and ask him about it.”
“Jesus, as if I don’t have enough to do already.”
“Come on, Brian, help me out here.”
“You really think it was murder?�
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“It’s weird about the report. Why would Kendel leave out a major piece of information like that?”
“The kayak?”
“And the witness. And fucking Kendel won’t call me back.”
“Maybe he knows he messed up. You do have a reputation.”
“Give me a break, Brian. Just ask around, see if you stumble into something that can help me. Maybe call someone at the Sheriff’s office.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“The usual.”
“No. I’m tired of the pub. How about the Beer Garden?”
“Seriously? It’s like a million degrees out.”
“You want your information?”
“How about Copek’s brewery.”
“No way. Sitting on plastic chairs in a warehouse next to a bunch of kegs is not my idea of a good time.”
“He’s got a tasting room,” I said.
“Bullshit.”
“He just built it. Even has a chickee hut.”
“Seriously?”
“He’s having an event tomorrow.”
“And it’s on you.”
“Absolutely.”
He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “Okay, what’s the victim’s name?”
My next call was to Rachel Mann.
“What do you need, Dex?”
I sighed. “I was just calling to say hi.”
“Funny. Out with it. I’m on deadline.” She was all business.
“Okay, then. A drowning two Fridays ago. Liam Fleming. You know who wrote about it?”
“Maybe Kirkpatrick. He’s our crime guy.”
“Can you do me a huge favor and send me whatever you all have on it?”
“Sure, ’cause I have nothing better to do with my time.”
“Please, Rachel.”
“You ever heard of Google?”
“Just do me this one favor. I’ll never ask for anything else. Ever.”
She sighed, held the line for a moment. “I won’t be able to get to it ’til tomorrow.”
“That’s fine.”
“Cock & Bull tomorrow?”
“What about Copek’s thing?”
“After Copek’s. The Funky Donkeys are playing. I need you to come with.”
“And I guess I’m buying the drinks.”
“Why, certainly.”
“You and that chick are getting serious again?”
“That chick’s name is Dana. And yes, we kind of got it on the other night. But we agreed to see other people, so we’re not like girlfriend and girlfriend, you know. We’re—”
“Free spirits? Swingers?” I had nursed a few of Rachel’s broken hearts in the past. And, in most of them, Dana had played a major role.
“Whatever, Dexter. It’s all just labels.”
We hung up. I went to the fridge, pulled out a cold Siesta IPA, and took a long thirsty gulp. It was perfect for a hot afternoon like this. Just looking out the window made me sweat.
I poured a little food for Mimi and turned the stereo on. I let the tubes warm up while I selected a record. I was in the mood for something old school: Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here, the British Harvest label. I set the needle down, sat on the couch, and tried to chill.
The music was medicine. I almost fell asleep listening to side one. But while I’d been lying there something kept poking at my brain: the properties Beach City Holdings owned did not make sense to me. Both the acreage and the lots in Siesta Key were like a patchwork, a chessboard. It didn’t look as if they could be put together for a development, or a condo building. Maybe that’s what Liam was waiting for. He wanted to fill in the gaps.
I pulled out an old road atlas from the bottom of a bookshelf and studied the length of Siesta Key—top to bottom, north to south. Midnight Pass Road ended at Pointe, a condo development. No land after that, just the Intracoastal. But at the end of Blind Pass Road, just past Turtle Beach, there were a few lots. Then there was a long swath of land. This was Midnight Pass, the opening the Corps of Engineers closed back in the eighties. It was undeveloped until the north end of Casey Key—where development started all over again.
I pulled out my phone and looked at the photograph I took of the map in Liam Fleming’s bedroom wall. The red Sharpie marks coincided with the properties I had seen on the County Property Appraisers website: three lots south of Turtle Beach. One on Midnight Pass Road just before the gates of the condo development. And of course, Liam’s cottage.
Maybe the county would one day approve building on that land. When Fleming said his son had a long-term plan, he wasn’t kidding.
In addition to owning the apartment building where Tessa lived, Beach City Holdings also owned two of the three houses on the north end of Beach Road, that little stretch of road that was causing a heap of trouble thanks to County Commissioner Troy Varnel. But if the county got its way, Beach City Holdings’ two properties there were poised to gain ten to fifteen feet of land and become beachfront houses.
A great investment.
I got up and turned the record over and looked at the cover, the man burning, shaking hands with the businessman. Pink Floyd at their zenith. I set the record back down and cranked the volume up on “Shine on You Crazy Diamond.”
My mind kept drifting back to Brandy Fleming and Keith Peterson. What if Liam found out about their affair and was threatening to tell his father? It sure didn’t feel like Brandy wanted me snooping around Liam’s case. She either thought I was a con or she thought I’d find out about her affair, that Liam had found out, that he was going to tell his father, that Brandy panicked, that she had Keith kill Liam.
I sat up. I believed it and didn’t believe it—or didn’t want to. Either way, it was a serious possibility. I typed up a list into my Fleming document:
Jaybird (motive: uncertain, probably told cops he saw Liam leave on kayak then lied to me)
Terrence Oliver (motive: greed, control of Beach City Holdings) Brandy and Keith (motive: fear of having their affair revealed by Liam)
I procrastinated a moment, thinking of something that had been gnawing at my gut. I didn’t want to see it like that, but I had to be honest with myself. Trust my intuition. I couldn’t allow myself to be fooled by talk and friendship. It was certainly a possibility. Finally, I added the last name to the list:
Tessa (motive: jealousy, crime of passion)
CHAPTER 17
IN THE EARLY evening, about an hour before sunset, I called the Salty Dog but neither Tessa nor Jaybird were in. Too early for the dinner shift. I drove down to Siesta Beach to see if I could find Jaybird at the drum circle. Heavy clouds hovered low over all of Sarasota—storms to the east, south, and west.
When I got out of the car, lightning flashed out in the ocean followed by the crack of thunder. People were coming off the beach in a hurry, carrying their chairs, folded umbrellas, towels flapping in the strong wind.
Just as I got to the beach, a hippie with his drum passed me by on his way to the parking lot.
“Hey!” I went after him. “What happened to the drum circle?”
He waved at the sky. “Canceled ’cause the shitty weather.”
“Is Jaybird back there?”
He shook his head. “No one’s there.”
Lightning struck near the water’s edge. Thunder followed with a tremendous roar. The hippie disappeared into the parking lot. Cars were pulling out of spaces. People were laughing as they rushed to their vehicles, threw their beach gear and toys in the back. The sky was dark gray. The wind picked up. It was getting ready to pour.
I made my way back to my car just as the rain started. It came down in sheets. I started the car, turned the AC on low, and waited for the storm to pass. Summer. We never caught a break. Hot, humid, rainy, and infested with mosquitoes. But as fierce as the storms were, they passed quickly. About fifteen minutes after it started, the storm moved north. The rain lightened up.
I drove down Midnight Pass to Liam’s cottage. I parked in the driveway next to
the VW Golf and walked into the house. Everything was exactly as it had been the last time I was here. Jaybird’s drum was in the same place, the same beers in the fridge. The red kayak leaning against the wall outside the lanai.
I went out to the front and checked the mailbox. I grabbed the bundle of mail and walked back in the cottage, sat down on the couch, and went through the envelopes.
It was more of the same: a water bill from the county, real estate advertisings, a copy of Surfer Magazine, two general coupon flyers, and the Publix weekly savings.
I tossed it all on the coffee table next to the purple bong and leaned back on the rattan couch that stank of mildew and cheese. I considered drinking one of the beers in the fridge. I went back out on the patio and looked around. It was getting dark and the mosquitoes and no-see-ums were out in force. I made my way to the end of the narrow dock and came back and around the side of the house and got in my car.
Too many bugs to enjoy the evening.
I called the Old Salty Dog again and asked for Jaybird. The person on the phone sounded distracted, said he wasn’t there. Hung up quickly. I didn’t get a chance to ask for Tessa.
I started the engine and turned up the AC and waited, thinking, trying to figure out what to do next, where to go. Finally, I backed out and started north on Midnight Pass. The Old Salty Dog. I figured I’d sit in the bar, have a beer and talk to Tessa.
I knew what was happening. My conscience was waving an angry finger at me telling me not to. She was as much a suspect as Jaybird and Keith Peterson. But I couldn’t help it. I was falling for her.
I enjoyed her company. She was funny and smart. And pretty. I passed the public beach. It had stopped raining, but the storm had left puddles and palm fronds and debris on the road. Just as I was coming up on the Village, my cell phone rang.
Rachel Mann.
“Hey, you know what’s weird?” she said.
“A lot of things,” I said.
