Sunshine State

by D P Lyle

  “Especially Clark’s,” I said.

  “So, we know where Clark was the night his wife was murdered,” Nicole said. “At least it seems so. But where was he the night Noleen was killed?”

  “That could be a trickier question,” Ray said.

  “What about Tommy Lee?” I asked. “How do we check out his alibi? And find out where he was the night Sara was killed?”

  “We need to see his schedule book,” Pancake said.

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “I bet he runs his business out of his home. At least, he doesn’t have an office or anything like that so I suspect that’s the case.”

  “Okay, so?” I asked.

  “We need to take a look-see,” Pancake said.

  “What? Break into his house?”

  Pancake smiled, nodded toward Ray. “Ain’t like we never did it before.”

  “Why do I think that could get messy?” I asked.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Pancake said. “I got me an idea. Sit tight. I’ll be back.”

  I watched as he walked toward the marina and down the dock. Tommy Lee’s boat sat at the end, Tommy Lee onboard, working.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “HOW’S IT GOING?” Pancake asked.

  Tommy Lee looked up. He was flushing out his bait tank, his tee shirt wet, hands grimy. “Oh, hey.”

  “Looks like you’re prepping to head out.”

  “Got a charter later today.”

  “Business must be good.”

  “It’s the busy season. Got to make hay while the sun shines.” Tommy Lee wiped his hands on a stained, light-blue towel, then used it to swipe sweat from his face. “How about a beer?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Come on board.”

  Pancake sat on the rear seat. Tommy Lee stepped below and returned with a pair on PBR longnecks. He handed one to Pancake and then twisted the cap off his. He took a couple of gulps, then rolled the bottle across his forehead. “Hot as a bitch today.”

  “Sure is.” Pancake opened his bottle and downed half of it in a series of gulps. “Good. Thanks.”

  “Looks like your face is healing okay,” Tommy Lee said. “Can’t hardly see it now.”

  “Amazing what rubbing a little dirt on it will do.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. So, how’s your film stuff going?”

  “Fine. Slow, but fine.” He waved a hand. “I like your boat.”

  “Yeah, she’s a good one.”

  “I think you said you picked it up a couple of years ago. Right?”

  Tommy Lee nodded. “Got a good deal. Couldn’t turn it down.”

  “Still looks brand new.”

  “Got to take care of your equipment. Folks expect a comfortable ride.” He smiled. “And lots of fish.”

  “I suspect you know all the best spots.”

  “That I do.” Tommy Lee climbed into one of the fishing chairs, swiveled it toward Pancake, gently rocking it back and forth. “Like today. Got a couple of guys from over in Orlando. I’m taking them out late today. Do a little evening fishing.” He pointed south. “Maybe a dozen miles that way’s an excellent cove. Always good luck there.” He smiled. “A very few others know about it.”

  “I worked on a fishing boat once,” Pancake said.

  “Really?”

  “Back in high school. Summer job. It was actually a shrimp boat.” Another slug of beer. “Hard work. Kept me in shape for football.”

  Tommy Lee laughed. “It’ll do that.” He opened one hand and looked at his palm. “Rough on the hands though.”

  “I remember it well.”

  “Too bad you guys aren’t from here. I could use another hand. I got one guy who’s pretty reliable. Not always available though. Otherwise I have to grab whatever yahoo I can find. Mostly kids. Not very experienced. Or interested. Kids seem to be lazy now’ days.” He scratched an ear. “Truth is that sometimes I think I do better with just me.”

  “Lot of work.”

  “True. That’s why an experienced hand would be a good thing.”

  Pancake leaned back, the longneck scissored between two fingers, dangling. “I’m probably too soft for that now.”

  “You don’t look soft to me,” Tommy Lee said.

  “I do visit the gym. Lift a little.” Pancake opened one hand, inspecting it. “But this P.I. work isn’t all that manual. Makes your hands soft, for sure.”

  “What exactly do you guys do? I mean, what does a P.I. do?”

  “Not this consulting stuff. This is a first for us. Mostly we look into cheating spouses, bank shenanigans, some criminal investigations for defense attorneys. That sort of stuff.”

  “Not sure I could do that.”

  Pancake smiled. “It does take a certain attitude. Of course, rummaging around in folks’ dirty laundry often makes you want to take a shower.”

  “That’s my point.”

  “What do you charge for a charter?” Pancake asked.

  “Depends on how many, and how long.”

  “What if we wanted to hire you? The four of us. A half day.”

  “Two grand.”

  “Sounds good. We might want to do that. If you have the time.”

  “Wouldn’t be for a couple of days, but we could make that happen.”

  “You have an office? A secretary? How would we set it up?”

  “No office. No secretary. Just me. I run everything out of my home.” He tilted the bottle toward Pancake. “I probably won’t get back before maybe ten tonight. Call me first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll check my schedule and we’ll set it up.”

  “Sounds good.” Pancake stood. “Good luck tonight.”

  Tommy Lee nodded.

  “Thanks for the beer. I owe you one.”

  “No problem.”

  Pancake stepped off the boat. “Call you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE REPORTER FOR the Pine Key Breeze, the local twice-weekly newspaper, turned out to be Gloria Whitt. Based on her list of credits, she seemed to be their primary contributor. Mostly stories on local happenings. Things like restaurant reviews, social and fund-raising events, city council meetings, human interest pieces, as well as local crime reports. She had a broad range, it seemed. Pancake had located the article she wrote about the accident on the bridge that Clark and Munson had investigated the night Sara Clark was murdered. It contained quotes from each detective, indicating they had indeed been there. But for how long?

  Ray dispatched Nicole and me to talk with Gloria while he and Pancake continued their snooping into Tommy Lee and Frank Clark. Was there a connection between the two? If so, what?

  The newspaper’s office occupied half of a low, white clapboard duplex on Main Street, practically across the street from Woody’s. Nicole and I found Gloria inside, sitting at a corner desk, facing her computer. She wore a lemon blouse beneath a dark blue cardigan, buttoned, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Very sedate and professional. Incongruously, purple streaks highlighted her short, light brown hair, and a row of multi-colored ear studs lined the arch of her right ear. A Bluetooth device clung to the left one, its short microphone extending along her cheek. She spoke and typed at the same time. She glanced up as we approached, briefly raised a finger, and went on with what she was doing. We hung back and waited. When she completed the call, she returned her gaze to us.

  “You’re the ones that’re making that documentary?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Nicole said.

  “Actually, I’ve been looking for you two.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah. I wanted to do a piece on you and what you’re doing. I think our readers would like that.

  “That would be nice,” Nicole said.

  “If you have the time, it won’t take but a few minutes. Does that work?”

  “Perfectly,” Nicole said.

  For the next ten minutes we answered her questions. Who we were, what Regency Global Productions w
as all about and what their interest in the story was, what the slant of the production would be, things like that. She typed away as we talked. She interrupted her questioning twice to answer incoming calls, telling each she’d get back to them as soon as possible. Her multitasking skills were impressive.

  Finally, she said, “This is good stuff. I’ll get something ready for the next edition.” She looked at me, then Nicole. “How rude of me. Here I am babbling on about my work when I’m sure you didn’t come in here for that.”

  “Seems to me that you’re pretty good at what you do,” I said.

  She laughed. “I try. And I do love it.” She unclipped the earpiece and rested it on the desktop. Its blue light pulsed slowly. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “We’re doing research for the documentary,” Nicole said. “Trying to get a better feel for how the murders affected the town. We thought that if anyone knew, it would be you.”

  “Tore it up. As simple as that.” She sighed. “Things are better now, but we’re not near back to normal.”

  “Hopefully, the documentary will offer some healing.”

  “From what you said, I suspect that’ll be the case.” One sleeve of her sweater had drifted downward and she shoved it back up to her elbow. “How can I help?”

  “We read your articles on the killings,” I said. “Very good reporting.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I particularly liked the interview you did with Detective Clark,” Nicole said.

  “That was a tough one. Frank’s a good guy. Sara’s murder did a number on him.” She looked down and shook her head. “We sat down the next day. He was still shell shocked, I think. It was a tough interview.”

  “It read like that.”

  “I mean, coming home, finding your wife strangled? Does it get any worse?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think it does.”

  “We talked with him,” Nicole said. “He told us it had been a strange day already. Some shoplifters, then a big accident out on the bridge. Then, finding Sara.”

  “In fact,” I said, “we read the article you did on that accident.”

  “It was a mess. Fortunately, there were no major injuries, but the three cars that tangled jammed up the traffic. Took nearly three hours to get things back to normal.”

  “You were there all that time?”

  “Mostly. Actually helped push a couple of the cars off the roadway.” She laughed. “The life of a reporter.”

  “That’s what Clark said. Said he was tied up there for a couple of hours. Investigating the accident, getting the traffic moving.”

  She gave a quick nod. “He and Terry Munson were both there.”

  “The entire time?”

  She glanced toward the ceiling, as if recalling the incident. “Yeah. I talked with both of them.” She looked at me. “Why?”

  “Clark told us he was, even today, wishing he hadn’t been there,” I said. “That maybe if he’d been home, Sara would be alive.”

  She offered a grim half smile. “He beat himself up over that. I talked with him a few times. Not just for the article but here and there when our paths crossed. Which they do frequently. He knows all the juicy stuff on any criminal activity around here. Which means stolen bikes and knocked-over trash cans.” She laughed. “Teenagers being teenagers. Anyway, I told him over and over that there was no way he could’ve known so it wasn’t his fault.” She pursed her lips and gave a slight headshake. “But guilt can be irrational.”

  “That’s the truth,” I said.

  “So, yeah, they were there. Along with a couple of dozen volunteers.”

  “Volunteers?” Nicole asked.

  “The stranded motorists got out to help. Also, a few folks who’d heard about the pileup came out to help. Small towns stick together.”

  “I’m sure Clark and Munson appreciated the help,” I said.

  “They did.” She hesitated, smiled. “In fact, I remember that, as soon as we got the bridge open, they had to hightail it back to the station and deal with those shoplifters. They barely made it back before the parents showed up to retrieve them. Drove up from Mexico Beach, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s what Clark told us,” I said. “And, I understand the girls had to come back for several weekends of community service.”

  Another laugh. “Sure did. Which I thought was a good lesson for them. I did a piece on that, too. Talked with the parents. They were definitely onboard with the punishment.”

  “Bet that ended their shoplifting careers,” I said.

  She shrugged. “You ask me, maybe for two of them. The third, she was actually the youngest of the three, I don’t think so.”

  “Really?”

  “She had an attitude. One that said her life wasn’t going to go so well.” Another shrug. “Not overly repentant. I remember her father. Single parent. Nice guy but passive. Way overmatched by his daughter. I felt sorry for him. I suspected the daughter would butt heads with the law again before too long. Seemed to be her nature. But, that was just my take. I could be wrong.”

  “I bet you have a pretty good handle on people,” Nicole said. “Reporters usually do.”

  “Maybe. I sure hope so.” She laughed. “My mother always said I was too naive and trusting for my own good. She’s still amazed I make a living at this.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  WE LEFT GLORIA Whitt to her work. Before we had taken a dozen steps away from her desk, she had replaced the earpiece and busied herself with returning calls. I waved from the door. She nodded.

  I called Ray. He and Pancake were at Woody’s. Said it was happy hour and Pancake was hungry. Shocking.

  We found them at a deck table, Ray with a Corona, Pancake with PBR and a platter of fried calamari that looked like a pack of pit bulls had marched through it. Only remnants remained.

  Pancake pushed the plate away. “I would’ve saved you some, but I didn’t.”

  Nicole punched his shoulder and then sat next to him. “Would’ve been disappointed if you had.”

  “They have more,” he said.

  He waved a hand. Laurie Mae headed our way. I noticed she more or less nestled up against Pancake. Hip to his shoulder.

  “Welcome,” she said. “Something to drink?”

  Nicole ordered her usual. A sixteen-ouncer. This one black raspberry. Me a Maker’s Mark on the rocks.

  “I’ll have another,” Pancake said. “And maybe some nachos.”

  “Love a man with an appetite.” Laurie Mae smiled. Her gaze held Pancake’s for a couple of seconds. “Anything for anyone else?”

  Shrimp tacos all around. Laurie Mae motored toward the kitchen, waylaid briefly by a table that ordered another round of drinks.

  “She likes you,” Nicole said.

  Pancake spread his hands open. “Why wouldn’t she?”

  Nicole laughed. “Can’t think of a single reason why not.”

  “Let’s get caught up,” Ray said. He nodded toward me.

  “Gloria Whitt, the reporter, remembered the night well. Even that the three shoplifters had been arrested that night.”

  “Good memory,” Ray said.

  “She’s sharp.” I glanced at Nicole, who nodded her agreement. “Even if her mother doesn’t think so.”

  Ray gave me a quizzical look.

  “Something she said. Apparently, her mother thinks she’s naive. Regardless, she said both Clark and Munson were there for several hours. Then they both returned to the station in time to talk with the girls’ parents.”

  “Which means if the ME was right about Sara Clark’s time of death, Clark had a pretty solid alibi.” He glanced at Pancake. “Wonder if Tommy Lee can say the same.”

  “So, you’re buying into that they might’ve exchanged murders?” I asked.

  Ray took a slug from his beer. “Not buying into anything. Not rejecting it either.”

  Pancake pointed toward the marina. I looked that way. Backlit by the late afternoon sunligh
t, Tommy Lee stood on the dock, waiting for three men to board his boat. I didn’t see a mate so assumed Tommy Lee was making the run solo.

  “Looks like Tommy Lee’s charter is ready to go,” Pancake said. “I suspect we’ll know his schedule pretty soon.”

  “You’re actually going to break into his house?” I asked.

  He leaned back, folding his thick arms over his thicker chest. “Unless you got another plan?”

  I didn’t.

  “He runs his business from his home so everything we need should be there. Not only if he was indeed out on the water the night his sister was murdered, but also where he might’ve been the night of Sara Clark’s killing.”

  I now saw Tommy Lee’s boat crank up and pull away from the dock, the reflected sunlight burnishing its wake.

  “Nicole and I’ll scrape together the bail money,” I said.

  “You’re funny,” Pancake said. “Ain’t he funny, Ray?” Ray nodded. “Not as funny as Nicole, but funny.”

  “We’ll need you guys to stay here.” Ray waved a hand. “Somewhere around here. Keep an eye out and let us know if Tommy Lee comes back early for some reason.”

  “I suspect he’ll be gone for a few hours,” I said.

  “Likely.” Ray gave a nod. “But contingencies must be covered.”

  So Ray.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  RAY AND PANCAKE tugged on latex gloves as they crossed Tommy Lee’s backyard. Dark and quiet. Getting in proved easy. No alarm. Cheesy-ass lock. Took Ray all of thirty seconds to click open the rear door and they were inside. No alarm system to deal with.

  Ray and Pancake had returned to the hotel, changed into dark clothes, and waited for darkness. They decided to walk over to Tommy Lee’s place. Only a half a dozen blocks from Main Street. Seemed everything in Pine Key was near Main Street. Walking meant no vehicle to keep up with and allowed for escape into the trees behind Tommy Lee’s property if necessary. You just never knew.

  The door opened into a small kitchen, a few dirty dishes piled in the sink, but otherwise neat and well ordered. Beyond was a dining room, large living room, and a hallway that led to three bedrooms. One had been converted into an office. On the desk sat an iMac and Tommy Lee’s schedule ledger. Green canvas cover, “2018” in block print on the front. Inside were weekly pages, most days filled with charters, each with neat block printing that gave the name of the customer, their addresses and contact info, and credit card numbers. Today’s clients were under the name Scott Hansen from Orlando.