"What is your impression of the kid?" Ray asked.
Now I knew why he was going to call me. He wanted to pick my brain, again, and take advantage of my working with the crime victims and their families. I wanted to take advantage of what he knew, too.
"Jamel? He's a real pickle. My first impression was he looked old for a teenager, then I found out he's a twenty-eight year old goofball. Amelia revealed he had trouble in the past, but it was a mistake, and the charges were dropped."
"He started himself a nice little rap sheet," Ray said. "He has one conviction for possession. The judge gave him probation. He's had a couple more arrests, also for narcotics, but no other convictions."
"Intent to sell?"
"They thought so at the time but couldn't prove it. We think he's still dealing, but we can't prove that either. He was running with a gang a few years back, doesn't hang with them anymore. The word on the street is he's moved on to a tougher crowd." Ray took another piece of my chicken. I pushed my plate in his direction.
"Here, I'm finished with it."
"Don't you want to share?" He had an annoying smile, ringing with self-satisfaction and sex appeal.
"No," I snapped.
"Sophi, lighten up."
"Stick with the business at hand, would you? I'm not enjoying this." I pushed my chair back and stood.
"Are you willing to help on the case?" He was all business.
"I guess. What is it you want me to do?"
"Keep an eye on things at work."
"You want me to be a snitch?"
"No, you're a friend of mine who's in the right place at the right time."
"Okay, okay." Sure, I thought, a friend when it's convenient. I headed in the direction of Barney's.
"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned and found him standing closer than I realized. I nearly pushed my nose into his chest. Again, the smell of the Nautica. I backed away about three feet.
"Why not? I'm can't get rid of you until you're finished with this conversation."
"You're perceptive." He guided me toward the line of customers waiting to buy coffee.
Barney's had a window opening onto the food court as well as an entrance into the store. I pointed, indicating there were fewer customers waiting at the inside counter. While we waited, I scooped a bag of chocolate-raspberry flavored coffee and had the beans ground. I'd take it into work on Monday. It was my turn to supply the good stuff.
Ray, the southern gentleman, ordered the coffee and even paid for my purchase. At least I got some benefit from the encounter. We left the store, and Ray guided me to a bench in the corridor. It was a quiet night in the mall, and it was obvious he wanted a quiet place to chat.
"Ray, I came here for dinner and to shop for a swimming suit. The mall closes in thirty minutes."
"How about I come with you to get the suit, then we can talk for a few minutes outside?"
"I guess." I resigned myself to his company. As we walked through the wide corridor separating the two rows of stores, it felt like old times. He walked with his arm resting on my shoulder. I felt his firm muscles against my skin. I headed toward a department store. "Ray, why don't you wait here? I'll try to hurry."
"No rush. I'll tag along."
Ray liked to shop with me, and he had great taste. He possessed a knack for picking the perfect thing off the rack.
"Fine. It'll speed me up."
Ray and I trekked through the racks to the swimwear department and stood side-by-side sorting through the suits. He selected three, French cut and black with various parts missing. I grabbed the one with the most fabric and headed for the dressing room. It fit like a glove. When I came out dressed in my jeans, he had a disappointed expression. I suspected he wanted me to model the suit for him.
In the parking lot, we leaned against my Mini Cooper, finishing our conversation. I scanned the lot and didn't see his 1992 Dodge Viper.
"Where did you park?" I asked. I wanted to know if he had spotted my car and come looking for me or had followed me to the mall. I thought it was the latter.
"Over there." He pointed to a 2009 Honda S2000. It was red and would have been my choice.
"Nice. Where's the Viper?"
"Totaled. Some jerk plowed into it when it was parked."
A flicker of anger crossed his face. He had loved the car. "I see you recovered from the loss." I pointed to the S2000. "Ray, what do you think about the case? What's going on? Amelia thinks you're not aggressive."
"We recovered several nine millimeter shells. We'll ID the weapon or weapons when we get our hands on them."
"I think you're looking for one shooter, one weapon, an automatic or semi-automatic."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
I dug into my purse, extracting the paper towel with my scribbling from earlier in the day. I pointed to my sketch. "Based on the entry and exit wounds the doctor mentioned in his operative report, I'd bet it was one guy who made an arc like this." I demonstrated the motion, using my left arm for the automatic rifle.
He took the drawing, studied it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks. I'd like to discuss this with the Medical Examiner if you don't mind." He paused a moment, maybe waiting for me to object. "My notion is it was a hit. There is no evidence he associated with people who are in the habit of personally blowing away business associates, so I figure it was a contract."
"Contract? Sounds a bit far fetched to me." I stepped away from the car and faced him. "He's a small time realtor, and from what his wife said, he hasn't been doing a big business. He doesn't appear to have been a big player in anything."
"That remains to be seen. In truth, we haven't uncovered much. Passersby and paramedics trampled the outside part of the crime scene. The realty office is a couple doors away from a bar, but no one saw anything. They managed to come out and gawk and destroy the evidence though. We dug bullets out of the walls and netted several cartridges off the street. We figure the rest of the spent rounds landed in the vehicle."
"Pretty thin. What else?" I gestured with my hands, encouraging him to continue.
"Amelia Hutchinson hasn't been helpful. Her neighbors claim they heard the couple fighting and say Barry came and went at all hours of the day and night. It's been going on for as long as they remember. Amelia says they reconciled and are in love. Doesn't jibe."
I considered his comments. "I think the truth is she thinks she's in love, and he doesn't—didn't give a damn. Being alone scared her. She figured she was better off with him, rather than plunging ahead into unknown territory."
Ray raised an eyebrow. I repeated Amelia's comments about her marital problems and my opinion that Hutchinson emotionally neglected and abused her for years.
"See what else you can get out of her." He tapped his fingers on the roof of my Mini. "Interested in stopping by Patty's for a beer?" He checked his watch. "It's early."
"No, I think not." Patty's Pub was an Irish bar located a couple blocks from the police station. In the past, I frequented the place, stopping by to chat with old friends from the force. Lately, I've stayed away to avoid Ray.
"Suit yourself." He stepped back and smiled.
"Oh well," I said, opening the car door. "I'll give you a call when I have something to report." I hopped into the car, thinking the damned man deliberately pushed my buttons. "Thanks for the coffee." When I entered the perimeter road circling the mall, I glanced at him in my rearview mirror. He stood in the same spot. "Don't get involved, Sophia," I said.
5
On Saturday morning, I pulled myself from sleep. I was sticky, bathed in perspiration. Despite the open windows, it was too warm to sleep without air conditioning. I felt drugged, though I hadn't been, and annoyed. Disquieting, vague images of Ray back in my life had filled my fitful sleep. I remembered a vivid image of my house with a placard in front of it.
I petted Sunshine, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. His silky long ears and perpetual puppy face reminded
me of Lady from Lady and the Tramp. His sole purpose in life was to sit on a pillow and look pretty, and he did that very well. He was also good at lap sitting, chasing and sometimes catching small lizards, and tracking up my tile floors. Sunshine slept on my pillow and liked to cuddle in the morning. So did I, but he didn't reciprocate. Ray had laughed when he heard Sunshine's name. It's a wimp name for a male dog, but I wanted a bit of sunshine in my life, and he fit the bill.
After I gave Sunshine his morning rub and snuggle, I felt better. I padded into the kitchen to start my coffee brewing and feed him. That's another thing he did well—eat.
A shower and a cup of coffee and I'd be en route to the beach. I peered out the back window. It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny. Vanessa and Connie were driving to Fort Lauderdale beach together. Vanessa liked to get an early swim, and Connie agreed to go with her. I'd meet them later at the usual place.
Sunshine tracked the floor with mud when he came in through his doggy door, and after cleaning the mess, I took off for the ocean, running into a tangle of cross-town traffic. I took the Sawgrass Expressway to Interstate 595 cross-town, zipping around Port Everglades, along the causeway over the Intracoastal, and onto the beach. It was an enjoyable ride past specialty shops, fancy eateries, and expensive beach homes.
By the time I reached the ocean, I was annoyed again. Traffic crawled on A1A, and it took a while to find a parking space. The parking lot south of Fifth Street was full, but I was lucky enough to pull into a space after a lady left with her minivan full of preteens. Connie, Vanessa, and I always meet in front of the lifeguard stand south of the Fifth Street traffic light.
I walked the couple of blocks to our meeting spot while carrying my beach chair and my gear. A low, white concrete wall separated the beach from the boardwalk. Mature palms line the beach, growing through holes in the sidewalk and out of the sand on the ocean side of the wall. Today a steady breeze bent the trees toward the mainland. I found the girls near the stand relaxing amidst an ocean of sunbathers, blankets, umbrellas, coolers, and beach chairs.
"What kept you?" Connie called when she saw me trudging across the sand. Connie wore one of those old-fashioned swimsuits, a plaid one-piece with a frumpy pleated skirt. It was a good choice for her bottom-heavy shape. It covered the top of her thighs and added fluff to her flat chest.
"The day didn't start in my favor," I whined, positioning my chair in the sand. I told them about Sunshine's mess and the traffic. They didn't need to know I dreamed about Ray Stone, again. "It's May. You'd think traffic would lighten up." I spun in a circle and waved my arms. "Look at this place. It's not even noon yet. I couldn't find a parking space, and it's wall-to-wall people." Sunbathers bordered the elevator-sized patch of sand Connie and Vanessa had staked out. "It's like a holiday weekend."
"Locals my dear, all locals." Vanessa rolled over onto her back and sat. The pale blue scarf covering her tied-up, blond hair matched her bikini and her eyes. She's one of the few middle-aged women I know who can and does wear a bikini. She looked terrific. I couldn't see a single stretch mark, blemish, or wrinkle.
I slipped off the tee shirt I wore over my suit. "Nice suit," Connie said.
I admired the shoreline and took a big breath of salty air. The waves were two, maybe three feet and broke into a thick froth. From where I stood, about thirty feet from the water's edge, the water appeared cleaner than usual with a minimum of seaweed.
"Girl, you'd be a knockout in a bikini." Vanessa smoothed her towel and prepared to lie on her stomach.
"But . . ." I pointed at my bosom. "I have trouble keeping the top in place when I go in the water. It's okay for sunning but bad for swimming."
Connie laughed. "I can relate."
"Yeah, Vanessa. We can't all be built like you." I plopped into my beach chair—the kind with the six-inch legs—stretched out, and extracted a bottle of sunscreen from my tote. "Anybody need any?"
"No dear," Vanessa said, "we did that an hour ago."
"Oh, well," I sassed, spreading a thin layer of lotion on my legs and arms and Olay moisturizer with sunscreen on my face. "Vanessa, how is the townhouse purchase going? When do you close?"
"It's f'd up. I'm so frustrated. That damn SOB realtor didn't do his job. Then he got himself shot!"
"Whoa, Barry Hutchinson was handling your home purchase?" I glanced at Connie. It didn't appear to be new to her.
"That's what I meant. I'm surprised more of them don't end up murdered. The way they jerk you around."
I popped the top of a Diet Coke and held it out to Connie. I handed a regular Coke to Vanessa and took one for myself. "What's going on with it?"
"I'm not sure. I need to call Amelia and see what's happening. Barry promised he'd get financing at a reasonable rate. The place is cheap enough. I saved enough for a decent down payment, but I need to keep my monthly outlay low. Before Craig left town, he cleaned out everything. I couldn't stop him because I was afraid if I tried, he'd carry out his threats, so I stayed in the shelter and let him screw me over. "
"So?" I prodded. The house purchase had dragged on for months already.
"I visited the mortgage broker Barry recommended. Barry wrote the deal so it looked like I put more money up front. The broker said it was no problem. He'd get it placed. Then he asked for co-signers."
"Why?" Connie asked. She reclined on her chaise lounge with her eyes closed and her soda balanced on her midriff.
"Like I advised Barry when I saw him the first time, my credit stinks. Craig ran off without paying the credit cards or the IRS. He left me stuck with everything, and it's in my name. When we first married, we put some things in his name and some in mine. I wanted to make sure I could get credit on my own. Now the only credit I have is bad."
"Are you not getting the mortgage or what?" I was confused. How could the realtor tell her she'd have no trouble? For that matter, how could the broker tell her she'd get a favorable rate with lousy credit?
"I don't have anyone to cosign, and I can't raise more cash—on paper I've put down twenty-five percent. The broker said I can get a no-qualifying, no-verification mortgage—B & C paper. It's for people with substandard credit. The problem is the rate will be higher. I agreed."
"Seems to me with all the mortgage issues and bank problems, that sort of thing wouldn't happen anymore. Besides, shouldn't you wait and get a house after you're out of the credit jam?" Connie asked. A practical person, she didn't charge more than she could pay off at the end of the month. She admitted big debts gave her a feeling of loss of control.
"Connie, I'll never be out of the credit jam. Besides, the payments, even with the higher rate, are lower than what I pay for rent. I figure I'll always have rent. I might as well buy and have something in the end. I have no kids and no family except my mother and aunt. Craig turned out to be an asshole. I don't want to be alone and homeless, too."
I wanted to tell Vanessa she would find someone else, have a good life—all of the reassuring crap—but something made me keep quiet. She seemed frazzled. The whole scenario was getting to her. Instead, I said, "What did Amelia say?"
"I ran into her in the cafeteria about a week after Barry was shot. She said she'd check with the mortgage guy and call me. She hasn't. She's just like her husband."
"Van, give her a break. Her husband is critically ill, and her kid is useless. She's getting back to work. She told me yesterday . . . no, the day before . . . she was attending to clients and had several deals to close."
"Did she mention me?" Vanessa sat up, looking at me with her back to the ocean.
"No. We weren't talking specifics. She's working weekends. Why don't you give her a call?" I pulled my cell phone from my tote and offered it to her.
"You sure?" she said, talking it out of my hand. "No conversation with Amelia is short."
"Don't worry about it. I'm a big spender." I laughed.
She dialed the number without looking it up or calling information.
"Besides, I have free we
ekends and nights. Talk as long as you like." I was curious—nosey—and wanted to hear the conversation.
I leaned back in the chair. It was eleven, and the sun was high in the sky. I shifted my weight and raised my right hip and thigh to get the full benefit of the penetrating heat. The twelve hours days were hard on my leg, and despite hours of physical therapy, I couldn't control the limp when I was tired.
"Amelia, Vanessa . . . No, I haven't heard anything from Scot Randall Mortgage . . . I've been dealing with Jack Randall." Vanessa stood and walked a few steps closer to the water, but the breeze brought her conversation to me. "Barry said the deal was a go. You told me it was on track, that my agreement was with the seller, not with Barry. Now, you say the contract is no good . . . No, Barry didn't tell me the contract wasn't valid until everyone had signed the changes." She paced. "Don't tell me that." Vanessa's voice was sharp. "Fix it." Her face contorted, and she looked like she wanted to slam the phone into its cradle—if there were one. She snapped the cover closed and faced us.
"What's the deal?" I asked, sensing she was on the verge of tears.
"Damn it. It's so frustrating. The bitch said the contract isn't valid. Barry never took it back to the sellers after we amended it. They may not approve. They’re tired of waiting and are about to lose their deal on the new house they want."
"You said you had a contract."
"I thought I did. Barry called it a contract. Amelia said I did, now she says it's just an offer and isn't a contract until both parties sign the changes."
"Makes sense to me," Connie said. "Didn't you know?"
"Who's side are you on anyway?" Vanessa snapped.
Connie frowned, looking hurt. "Your side."
"I never bought anything big before. Craig and I rented, and my parents never talked contracts and mortgages when I was around. Barry should have explained it was an offer. And why did he go and send me to a mortgage company if the contract wasn't good? And, for that matter, why did Jack Randall even agree to talk to me if I didn't have a valid contract to buy the friggin' place?"
Imperfect Contract Page 3
