Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “I’d appreciate that,” J.D. said, and gave the woman the phone number of the station.

  An hour later J.D. picked up her ringing phone. “Detective Duncan?” the voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Julie Erickson. The human resources director at USF said you were looking for me and my husband.”

  “Thank you for calling, Professor. I’m investigating the murder of Linda Favereaux.”

  “Oh, my. I heard about that. It’s just terrible.”

  “I have a very sensitive question to ask you, but I assure you it has a place in my investigation.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you and your husband African-American?”

  There was a bit of surprise in her voice. “Yes.”

  “I apologize for having to ask that. I understand that you and your husband were old friends of the Favereauxes. I have also developed some information that the Favereauxes may have at one time been involved with a white supremacy or neo-Nazi group?”

  “Aren’t they the same thing?”

  “Usually,” J.D. said. “Did the Favereauxes ever indicate any racist feelings to you?”

  “My Lord, no. They were the most color-blind people I’ve ever known. We first met them a couple of years ago when they endowed a chair that my husband and I now jointly hold.”

  “An endowed chair is a fund set aside to support and pay a professor for teaching in a particular subject area, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Do you mind my asking in what academic discipline the chair is funded?”

  “African American studies.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. That doesn’t sound like something a couple of racists would do, now does it?”

  “No, Professor. It certainly doesn’t. Let me ask you something else. Have you heard from Mr. Favereaux in the past few days?”

  “No, we haven’t. We read in the paper that he’d disappeared. We’re concerned about his safety.”

  “Did you see any indication that there was trouble in their marriage, or that they were concerned about anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  “We had dinner last Thursday at Michaels on East.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary come up?”

  “No. It was just a pleasant evening. Like so many others we’ve had.”

  “Would you mind giving me your contact information in case I need to get in touch with you again?”

  Julie Erickson gave J.D. an address and a phone number.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Professor. I apologize again about the question about your race.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Detective. I know you’re just doing your job. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I drove south on the key, headed for St. Armands Circle, one of the premier shopping and dining venues in Florida. It was a gorgeous spring day, the temperature in the mid-seventies, and the air drifting off the Gulf was sweet with the smell of the sea. The sidewalks were full of walkers, joggers, and bicyclists, all jockeying good-naturedly for space. I had the sunroof of the Explorer open and was listening to soft classical music on the radio. A guy just can’t beat living in paradise.

  Gus Grantham was waiting for me when I walked into Cha Cha’s, a restaurant and bar on St. Armands Circle. I was wearing a pair of cargo shorts, a t-shirt with a beach scene airbrushed on the back, and boat shoes.

  “You look more beach bum than lawyer,” Gus said.

  “That’s what I am, truly,” I said. “The lawyer thing is just temporary.”

  “How’s J.D.?”

  “Covered up on a murder case.”

  “I read about that one, too. She’s good. She’ll crack it soon enough.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “It’s good to see you, Matt. Are you going to be able to spring Abby?”

  “That may depend on what a good investigator can turn up. Are you interested in taking on the case?”

  “Sure.”

  “Abby has money to pay you. So this won’t be pro bono.”

  “That’s always good to hear. What do you need me to do?”

  “Maybe some things that aren’t quite aboveboard.”

  “Uh, oh.”

  I grinned. “Nothing illegal. It’s just that I’m told my opponent is a slimy bastard who isn’t going to be very compliant with the discovery rules.”

  “I’m not sure how much I can get from the FDLE. I know the guy who’s running the investigation, Lucas. Talk about slimy.”

  “Doesn’t the FDLE have to keep the locals in the loop on their investigation?”

  “They’re supposed to. I’m not sure they always do. What do you need first?”

  “The Sarasota crime scene techs collected a bunch of fingerprints from the victim’s condo. I’d like to know who those belonged to. Abby’s were there, but I need to know who else had been in that condo in the days leading up to the murder.”

  “You know,” Gus said, “that some of those fingerprints could have been there for years.”

  “Yeah. But Bannister had only been living there for a couple of weeks. I’m hoping maybe he had everything cleaned before he moved in and that most of the prints would be recent.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “I need anything on the ballistics. I don’t think they found the revolver, but I’d sure like to know everything else, such as whether the gun had been used in any other crimes. Whatever the techs turned up.”

  Gus was making notes as we talked. He looked up. “I should be able to get this to you pretty quickly. I have a good relationship with the guy who heads up the forensics unit.”

  “I’m told there were some bed sheets that had recently been the scene of sexual activity. The techs got DNA samples. I’d like to know who the DNA belonged to.”

  “Are you going to let the state get a sample from Abby?”

  “I probably won’t be able to stop it if the lab can’t match the DNA to anybody in the system.”

  “Was Abby screwing Bannister?”

  “I don’t know. Unless the state can come up with some evidence that they were sleeping together, it won’t be relevant to the case.”

  “The DNA,” Gus said.

  “The DNA might tell the tale. But even if there’s not a match, evidence could pop up that Abby and Bannister were having an affair. I’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. If we get to it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “If Abby didn’t kill Bannister, and I don’t think she did, that means there’s somebody else out there. My job is to make the state prove that Abby is the murderer, and I don’t think Swann and Lucas have the evidence to do that. But you never know. Things turn up, theories change. I have to be ready to make a plausible case that somebody else had reason to kill the victim. Somebody other than Abby. And I think the emails are the key to that.”

  “The Herald-Tribune didn’t say much about emails.”

  “Several were sent to Bannister that appeared to come from Abby. I haven’t seen them yet, but they seem to indicate an affair. The final email was sent the day of the murder. This was the email in which Abby threatened to kill Bannister. The problem is that the emails didn’t come from Abby’s computer. The only reason they point to her is that her name was typed at the bottom of the messages. I think it was a crude attempt to frame Abby. Do you know a computer guy who can help us out?”

  “I’ve got the perfect one. He’s a computer science professor at USF.”

  “Good. Let’s get him on board. Can you get the emails from the police?”

  Gus grinned. “Can a fish swim?”

  “Okay. I think that about does it for now.”

  Andy Brock, the waiter who had worked at Cha Cha’s since the place opened, brought our food while we talked. We finished our meal discussing old friends and the major league baseball spring trainin
g that was going on in the area. By one-thirty, I was in the Explorer driving north onto Longboat Key, headed to the Lester house.

  Abby invited me in. She was wearing shorts and a blouse and was barefoot. “You like my new anklet?” she asked, pointing to the device that surrounded her leg just above her ankle.

  “Chic,” I said.

  “Beats a cell, I guess. I really appreciate your getting me out of there.”

  “That’s my job, Abby. Where’s Bill?”

  “He went back to work this morning.”

  “I’m glad you’re home. Even with the restrictions.”

  “Me too. Anything new?”

  “Not really. I’ve hired Gus Grantham to do the investigation for us. He’ll be getting us the names of the people to whom all the fingerprints belonged. I was surprised that there were only ten sets.”

  “Harry Robson told me Bannister had the place painted before he moved in about two weeks before his death. The place wasn’t furnished, so he bought all new stuff.”

  “Well, that explains that.”

  “I guess you want to know about the affair that wasn’t.”

  “Wasn’t?”

  “Wasn’t. I did not have an affair with Nate Bannister.”

  “Abby, let’s not talk about this right now.”

  “Isn’t that the crux of the state’s case? That I was doing the dirty with that creep Bannister?”

  “We don’t know that yet, and I don’t want to intrude on your private life any more than I have to.”

  “Matt, when we talked yesterday about you representing me, one of the things you were concerned about was your objectivity. If you had never met me before, wouldn’t the first question you would have asked be, ‘Did you have an affair with the victim?’”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But, if I thought my client might lie to me, I wouldn’t ask the question.”

  “You think I’d lie to you?”

  “Maybe. Under the right circumstances, everybody is capable of lying.”

  “I thought we were better friends than that.”

  “We are, Abby, and there lies the rub. It’s only natural that we want those we care about to think highly of us. Sometimes, we shade the truth to make ourselves appear better to our friends than we really are. I’m bound to confidentiality about what you tell me, and you know I won’t break that bond. But, you also know that I might think less of you if you tell me that you’ve done things that aren’t proper or right, even though I may need that information to defend you. If you lie to me, I could step into a trap set by the state and blow your case. But, if I’m ignorant of your actions, and those actions have no bearing on your guilt or innocence, I can defend you without knowing about them.”

  “I’m not sure I get all that, but I’ll do as you say. What do you want to know?”

  We sat for the better part of an hour, with Abby telling me how she came to be involved in Bannister’s affairs and a plausible reason as to why her fingerprints were in his condo. We talked about her relationship with her husband Bill, the good and the bad. I made notes that I would type into my computer when I got home. In the end, I was confident of my client’s innocence and even more concerned that I could screw up her defense and send her to jail.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  J.D. was restless. She was making no progress. Linda Favereaux had a tattoo that indicated she was part of a virulent racist group, yet she and her husband had black friends and supported African American studies at USF. James Favereaux seemed to have dropped off the earth. There had been no activity on any of his credit cards; his car was at the Tampa airport, yet he had not taken a flight from there.

  Her lunch had consisted of a sandwich eaten at her desk. Its remains rested heavily on her stomach and she tasted acid in the back of her throat. She reached into her desk drawer and extracted two antacid pills, chewed them, and felt no better.

  She walked down the hall to Chief Bill Lester’s office, knocked on the door, and stuck her head in. “How’re you doing, Bill?”

  “Hey, J.D. I’m fine. Come on in. You making any progress on your murder case?”

  “Not really. I’d like to bounce it off you. See if you’ve got any ideas.”

  They spent the next thirty minutes going over everything she knew, what she surmised, and all the questions that were still rattling around in her mind. “Anything on Favereaux’s car?” Lester asked.

  “Not yet. The Sarasota sheriffs picked it up yesterday, but so far they haven’t gotten to it over at the crime lab.”

  Bill looked at his watch. “Twenty-four hours, and they haven’t touched it?”

  “No. I’ve talked to the lab twice today, and they keep saying they have other priorities.”

  “This just went to the top of their list. I’ll make a call. I think you can get the results first thing in the morning. Are you expecting anything specific?”

  “I doubt they’ll find anything at all. I suspect Favereaux dropped the car at the airport and grabbed a cab. Maybe he has other IDs and he flew somewhere using an alias. There’ve been no hits on his credit cards, so I’m thinking he’s using a different ID.”

  “But,” asked Lester, “why would a legitimate businessman have false IDs stashed away?”

  “And own a computer with sophisticated encryption software. Maybe he’s not legitimate.”

  “Any evidence of that so far?”

  “No. Not so far. I haven’t pursued that angle yet, but I will.”

  “Keep me posted, J.D.”

  “How’s Abby?”

  “Not bad. Glad to be out of jail, but she’s pretty much restricted to the house and yard. She’s not happy about that.”

  “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “I know, J.D. Thanks.”

  Back in her office, J.D. went to the Drug Enforcement Agency’s website, found the number for the Tampa office, and dialed it. She identified herself to the receptionist and asked to speak to Agent Devlin Michel. “I’m sorry, Detective, we don’t have an agent by that name in this office.”

  “Do you have a list of your agents in other offices around the country?”

  “Nothing that I can give out. I’m sorry.”

  J.D. thanked her and called the Washington headquarters of DEA. No Agent Michel on their staff. She talked to several people, climbing higher up the bureaucratic ladder until she had an assistant deputy director on the line. She explained her dilemma. Michel had called her, but now he didn’t seem to exist.

  “I’ll call you back in half an hour, Detective.”

  “Thanks. Let me give you my number.”

  “Not necessary.” The line went dead.

  J.D. shrugged, went back to her computer and pulled up the FBI’s website. She found the phone number for a division that tracked terrorist organizations, called it, identified herself to the receptionist, and asked if she could speak to the agent in charge. She was on hold for a few seconds before the line was picked up. “This is Agent Charles Willits.”

  “Good afternoon, Agent Willits. This is Detective J.D. Duncan in Longboat Key, Florida. I’m working a murder case down here, and we found a tattoo on our victim that appears to be associated with a New Orleans organization that calls itself The White America Party. I was wondering if you had any information about them.”

  “A nasty little bunch. They run a website and make as much noise as possible, but they’ve been pretty dormant for the past few years.”

  “I’m surprised you know much about them off the top of your head.”

  He laughed. “Until about two years ago, I was the Special Agent-in-Charge of the New Orleans office. That group was just one of several we kept our eye on.”

  “You said they’ve been dormant. What do you mean?”

  “They used to have rallies, parade around in their Nazi uniforms, make a lot of noise. They owned some property out in the sticks where they went to shoot guns and raise hell. We were pretty sure they had tried to intimidate some black folks from ti
me to time, but we were never able to pin anything on them.”

  “What happened to slow them down?”

  “Oh, I think most of the members just got old. They weren’t getting many new recruits, and the organization was drying up. They sold off their property and sort of disappeared into the woodwork. They’re still out there making noise. They put out a monthly newsletter that nobody reads and they keep up their website. Our New Orleans office checks on them periodically, but they’re pretty quiet.”

  “Were they ever into drugs?”

  “You mean selling, distribution, that sort of thing?

  “Yes.”

  “They might have been. There was a lot of drug activity around. I always thought The White America Party was on the periphery, buying and selling small quantities to keep money flowing their way, but we could never prove it.”

  “Do you have any idea why the DEA would still have an interest in one of their members?”

  “No.”

  “One last question, Agent Willits. Do you know a federal agent named Devlin Michel?”

  “Never heard of him. I’m pretty sure he’s not one of ours.”

  “I appreciate your help. One more thing. Do you have a list of The White American Party members?”

  “I’m sure we do. Probably going all the way back to when they started. Do you need it?”

  “Any idea how many names are on it?”

  “Not many. Probably less than fifty.”

  “Well, it’s a shot in the dark, but I’d appreciate it if you’d email it to me.” She gave him her address and hung up the phone. It rang again almost immediately.

  “Detective Duncan, this is Devlin Michel. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”

  “You’re a ghost.”

  “Sometimes. What can I do for you?”

  “Tell me who you are.”

  “Devlin Michel, DEA.”

  “I don’t think you’re DEA, and I have grave doubts that your name is Devlin Michel.”

  “I think you’re confused, Detective.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time. Just what is your interest in Darlene Pelletier?”

  “Sorry. I can’t tell you.”