by D P Lyle
Ray tugged open the left-side drawers, finding a stack of similar books. 2017 was blue, 2016 red. Ray flipped open the latter. He thumbed to February and the date Tommy Lee’s sister, Noleen, drew her last breath. Morning and then an evening charter. Guy named Wayne Ripley. Tampa address. Ray snapped a picture of the page with his phone. Then on to March and the night Sara Clark was killed. Morning charter, afternoon and evening free. He grabbed another image.
“He was out on the water the night his sister went down,” Ray said.
“But free for Sara Clark,” Pancake said.
“How convenient.”
Pancake grunted.
In the lower right drawer, a small metal box yielded a stack of bills. Ray counted them. Just north of $1,300.
“Boy had cash,” Pancake said.
“Probably not enough to hire a killer,” Ray said.
“Maybe he spent that a couple of years ago.”
Ray searched the other drawers, finding the usual office stuff, a couple of paperbacks, a stack of business cards.
And then struck gold.
In the middle drawer. Flip phone. No doubt a burner.
“Got a phone here,” Ray said. He held it up.
“What’d he do with it? Play street hockey?”
It had definitely seen better days. Scratched, dented, the alignment of the two halves slightly off.
“He does work on a boat.”
“Maybe he used it for a bobber,” Pancake said.
Ray opened it. The screen was cracked but it lit up.
“At least it works.” Ray immediately checked the call history. Well, well. Only one number was registered. Two calls in the past four days. One outgoing, one incoming. Before those nothing since early 2016. Total of eighteen calls, from late January until the last day of March.
Pancake, looking over his shoulder, said, “Isn’t that interesting?”
Ray closed the phone. “Lots of communication around the final two murders here in Pine Key.”
“Conspiracies require conversation,” Pancake said. “And then there’s the new ones. Started the day after we arrived.”
“Someone’s nervous.”
“Gotta admit, I was skeptical about that, but this changes my mind.”
“Sure does.” Ray looked at the phone, turned it over in his hand. “What do you think we should do?”
“Take the fucking thing.”
“If he misses it, it’ll let him know something is up.”
“A little pressure never hurts. Maybe he’ll do something stupid.”
Ray nodded.
“Either way, we can track the other number,” Pancake said. “Probably another burner.”
“That’d be my bet.”
Ray slipped the phone in his pocket. They searched the other rooms, finding nothing of interest. Back in the kitchen, Ray said, “Let’s go.”
They worked their way into the trees that lined the rear of the property and circled behind Tommy Lee’s neighbor before reaching a cross street. They turned toward town.
“Maybe we should simply make a call,” Pancake said. “See who answers.”
“Right after we try to track down the owner.”
“Won’t be able to. Maybe when and where the phone was purchased, but unless we get lucky, that’ll be it.”
“Let’s hope for luck.”
They made it only a half block down Elm when car lights washed over them. They moved to the shoulder, no curb here, just mowed grass. The car stopped beside them. The passenger window slid down.
Frank Clark.
“How you guys doing?” Clark asked.
Ray walked to the window, bending down. “Out for a walk.”
Clark nodded. “Nice night for it.”
Ray glanced up the street. “Nice little community you have here. Everything is so neat and well kept.”
“That’s true. Folks do take pride in their homes.”
“What about you?” Ray asked. “Making your patrols?”
“Yep.” Clark scratched one ear. “Nothing ever happens, but I do love driving around after the town has settled in for the night. Quiet and peaceful.”
Ray gave a soft laugh. “I suspect that’s true.”
“Give you a lift?”
“No. Thanks. We’re enjoying the evening.”
Clark hesitated, gave a nod. “Take care.” He drove away, turning left at the next street.
“Think he knew we were here?” Pancake asked.
“Maybe. More likely it’s just what he said. Routine patrol.”
Ray’s phone chirped. Incoming text from Jake: APPROACHING DOCK.
Tommy Lee was back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
NICOLE AND I had returned to the hotel with Ray and Pancake. Nicole grabbed a sweater and we headed to Woody’s while Ray and Pancake planned their assault on all things Tommy Lee. We put on our casual, no-worries personas, briefly chatted with Betty Lou, and then returned to the gazebo. After an hour my butt went to sleep from sitting so long. We wandered along the piers, inspecting the boats. Everything from sailboats, to small runabouts, to fully rigged fishing boats—like Tommy Lee’s. Around sunset, we relocated to the gazebo, which afforded us a direct view of the marina and the Gulf. Each time a boat appeared, and there were only three that did so, our collective heart rates went up until we saw it wasn’t Tommy Lee. Around nine, Betty Lou came down the stairs and walked toward us, a tower of glasses in one hand, a bottle of bourbon in the other.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked.
“Looks like you have the right ticket,” Nicole said, nodding at the bourbon.
“That ain’t all.” She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out half a dozen cigars.
“Betty Lou, you’re the best,” I said.
She laughed. “That I am.”
She unstacked the glasses and poured a generous portion in three of them. “Where’s Ray and Pancake?” she asked.
I glanced at Nicole. “Working. Computer stuff.”
“They’ll be here soon,” Nicole said.
“Laurie Mae sure seems taken with Pancake,” Betty Lou said.
“I think it’s mutual,” I said.
“Seems like a nice guy.”
“He is,” I said. “Known him all my life.”
“Good to know.”
Nicole looked at her. “Don’t worry. Pancake’s one of the good guys. Whatever happens between them, he’ll treat her right.”
Betty Lou gave a nod.
“And if he doesn’t,” Nicole said, “I’ll kick his ass.”
That drew one of Betty Lou’s wonderful laughs.
We each lit a cigar.
Betty Lou took a couple of puffs, leaned back in her chair. “I love nights like this.”
“What’s not to like,” Nicole said.
“It’s why I live here.” She puffed her cigar. “And why I ain’t never lived anywhere else.” She shrugged. “Too old and too entrenched to move.” A sip of whiskey, a lick of her lips. “Not that I ever would,”
“Reminds me of Gulf Shores,” I said. “Only smaller and quieter.”
“It is that.” She tilted her glass toward the Gulf. “Here comes Tommy Lee back in.”
I looked that way. In the darkness I could only see the faint hint of a wake, a boat for sure, but no way I could identify it. “How do you know it’s him?”
“By the sound.” She clamped her cigar between her teeth. It bobbed as she spoke. “I know every boat here. They’re all a little different. Tommy Lee’s got that big old motor. Hard to miss him.”
I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Ray. Two words: APPROACHING DOCK. He immediately replied: BE THERE IN 5. I sent back: GAZEBO.
I glanced at Nicole. “Ray and Pancake are on the way.”
“Good.” Betty Lou smiled. “I hate for those other glasses and cigars to go to waste.”
They didn’t. Ray and Pancake arrived. So did Laurie Mae. Over the next hour we finished off the cigars
and killed the bottle of whiskey. It was nearing ten thirty.
Ray stood. “As usual, it’s been a pleasure.” He looked at Pancake. “But we have some work to do.”
“This time of night?” Betty Lou asked.
Ray smiled. “We manage to work odd hours.”
Pancake gave Laurie Mae a hug. “This’ll only take an hour. Tops. Want to hit that bar again after that?”
She smiled. “You bet. I’ll meet you there.”
“Unless Dad has a curfew for us.” Pancake nodded toward Ray.
“You and Jake never heeded curfews when you were kids,” Ray said. “Don’t see any reason you would now.”
We said our goodnights to Betty Lou, thanking her for the goodies, helped ferry the empty glasses and whiskey bottle up to the restaurant, and headed back to the hotel. We gathered in Ray’s room.
Ray discussed the cash Tommy Lee had on hand, and what it might, or might not, mean. The consensus was that it was simply business as usual for Tommy Lee. Wouldn’t be remnants of any payments to Clark as that would’ve been two years ago. Then, Pancake worked his laptop, while Ray made a couple of calls.
“Okay, we got it,” Ray said. “Both phones were purchased together. January 2016. A mom-and-pop store in Panama City. Cash. No record of the buyer.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
Ray gave a half smile. “Just have to know the right people to call.”
Of course.
“Means they can’t be traced,” Pancake said.
“Figures,” I said.
“And after two years there won’t be any security videos at the store,” Ray said. “Even if they have such a system.” He gave a quick nod. “But all is not lost. This phone only has one number stored and has only ever called or received calls from that number.”
“The other phone?” Nicole asked.
“Exactly,” Ray said. “Which means these phones are incestuously linked.”
“Makes a murder swap that much more likely,” Pancake said.
“Are we saying that Tommy Lee and whoever has the other phone are in league with each other?” Nicole asked. “Killed for each other?”
Ray nodded. “Looks that way. Look at the timeline. The phones were purchased in January. A month after Loretta Swift was murdered and a month before Noleen Kovac’s killing.”
“You’re thinking Tommy Lee and Frank Clark planned this after they saw an opportunity to blame both killings on Billy Wayne?” I asked.
“That’d be my guess,” Ray said. “Look at it from their point of view. Tommy Lee wants all the inheritance, but his sister’s in the way. Frank Clark knows his wife is cheating and wants out of the marriage. Maybe even exact some form of revenge.” Ray opened his hands, palms up. “Old story. Greed and revenge.”
“How do we prove that?” Nicole asked.
“By finding the other phone,” Ray said.
“What about fingerprints?”
Ray shook his head. “Odds are the two cells were only in the same place shortly after they were purchased. That was two years ago. And from the looks of this one, it’s been through a lot. No way it would’ve held prints that long.”
“Maybe we can find out who might’ve been up in Panama City the day they were purchased,” I said.
“Could’ve been Tommy Lee,” Ray said. “I checked his schedule book, and he had no charters that day.”
“What about Frank Clark?” Nicole asked.
Ray sighed. “Don’t see a way we can get to his work schedule without exposing our agenda.”
“And creating backlash,” Pancake said.
“So, the key is discovering who has the other phone,” I said. “How are we going to do that?”
“Let’s start by making a call,” Pancake said.
“To who?” I asked.
Pancake raised an eyebrow. “To whoever answers.”
He picked up the burner.
“You sure?” I asked. “Won’t that put them on notice?”
“And shake his tree,” Ray said. “I like that.” He gave Pancake a go-ahead nod.
Pancake turned on the speaker function, held up a finger to silence everyone, and made the call, the phone now lying flat on his palm. Took five rings before an answer came.
“What’s up?” The voice crackled and fuzzed, barely audible. As if the speaker had been damaged somewhere along the line. Made sense from the look of it.
Each of us held our breath.
“Tommy Lee? What’s going on?”
Silence.
“Tommy Lee?”
Pancake disconnected the call. “Anybody recognize that voice?” I shook my head. “Don’t see how. It was so broken up and raspy.”
“It was male,” Ray said. “That’s about all I could tell.”
The burner rang. Even the ring crackled. Pancake again activated the speaker and clicked the answer button.
“Tommy Lee?” The same voice.
No response.
“What the hell is going on?” Pause. “Quit fucking around.” Another pause. “What the hell is wrong with you? This isn’t funny.”
We waited him out. His breathing, now ramped up a notch, hissed and popped through the speaker. The call ended.
Pancake closed the phone.
“Now we wait and see if that puts a few ripples in the pond,” Ray said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WHAT THE HELL was that about? Why would Tommy Lee call at this hour? Why would he call at all? Why wouldn’t he talk? Maybe the mic was out on his phone. They were cheap, after all. And two years old. Actually, more. But they had worked fine a few days ago. Could be Tommy Lee hadn’t charged it in a while. No, that couldn’t be it or it wouldn’t have worked at all.
This wasn’t a dead mic or battery.
It all felt wrong. Sounded wrong. Someone was there, listening, waiting. He had no doubts there.
Answering had been a mistake. But how was he to know? Only Tommy Lee had access to the phone, or even knew it existed. When it buzzed, vibrating the drawer in his bedside table, he simply reached for it, flipped it open, thinking Tommy Lee had urgent news. Or a problem.
Why did he say anything? Why not answer and wait for Tommy Lee to speak? But, no, he had to open his mouth. Shit, he’d even used Tommy Lee’s name.
And then called back.
Stupid.
He’d only gotten home an hour ago, been asleep for a half hour, max. Just enough to fall into a deep dreamless trough. Where the brain didn’t function very quickly. If he’d been awake he might’ve handled it better.
Too late to backtrack now. What was done was done. But what did it mean?
He swung out of bed, feet on the floor. He could blame it on being asleep, brain fuzzy, not thinking clearly, but what difference did that make? He’d fucked up.
Or was he making too much of this? Could be a faulty phone. Could be Tommy Lee dialed by accident. Maybe a pocket dial. Not likely on the old clamshell type. And even if that was possible, why did Tommy Lee answer when he returned the call? And say nothing.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The big question, the scary question, was if Tommy Lee wasn’t the caller, who was? Was it someone who could recognize his voice? Even worse, had Tommy Lee flipped on him? Had someone dug up the phone, learned what they had done? Leaned on Tommy Lee? He wasn’t the smartest guy. Or the toughest. Under pressure he would fold. He knew that from the beginning. But, to get done what needed doing, he’d needed Tommy Lee.
The plan had been perfect. Not a single flaw. Only he and Tommy Lee knew who did what, when, and how. A fact that had been buried for over two years now.
Something had changed. He felt it in his gut, and his gut was never wrong.
Now, his gut spoke to him. Only one real possibility. Those two private investigators. That’s what had changed. He knew about Ray Longly. Smart guy. Thorough guy from what he had learned. And he was here, roaming all over town. Talking, asking questions. Had he uncovered something? Had
he cracked Tommy Lee? That guy with him, Pancake, looked like he could crack anyone. Literally.
He massaged his temples. What to do?
He walked to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Looked in the mirror. Was that fear he saw? That ramped up his pulse, now pounding behind his eyes?
There was a single truth in play here. Secrets, dark secrets, can only be kept by a single person. Anyone else with that knowledge was a liability. Simple as that. A liability that must be eliminated.
He had to see Tommy Lee. Face-to-face. Gauge what’s what. And, if necessary, fix it.
Unless it was a trap. Tommy Lee spills his guts, makes the call, sets the snare. But, if so, why didn’t he say anything? Wouldn’t he have said that he needed to talk? That something big had changed?
He saw no perfect answer here. Anything he did, or didn’t do, could come back on him.
Driving over and knocking on Tommy Lee’s door wasn’t an option. If it was a trap, he could walk himself right into prison. The irony? He could end up in Raiford with Billy Wayne Baker.
Jesus, what a clusterfuck.
He dressed in all black, grabbed his backup weapon, a .38 snub nose. Purchased for cash, no records, at that gun show up in Pensacola. Years ago. Numbers filed off. Untraceable.
He melted into the trees behind his home and circled the town’s perimeter. Staying in the shadows, he made his way the six blocks to Tommy Lee’s.
He squatted beneath a scrub pine, surveying the situation, letting his pulse settle. The house was dark. Mostly. A slight glow fell through the kitchen window. The light coming from deeper in the house. The living room where he knew Tommy Lee always left a lamp on at night. No shadows, no movement.
He pulled the gun from his jacket pocket, took a deep breath, and hesitated. What would he find inside? Tommy Lee, his phone on the fritz, giving up, going to bed, now sound asleep? Or a welcoming committee?
