Sunshine State

by D P Lyle

  The back door was unlocked. Apparently, Tommy Lee wasn’t very security conscious. Hell, no one in town was. Maybe they were for a while after Billy Wayne showed up, but old habits have a way of seeping back in.

  The kitchen, dining room, and living room were quiet. The hall empty, another small night-light in the bathroom to his right. Tommy Lee’s room dark, and the man himself sprawled facedown on his bed, wearing only boxers, covers mostly kicked to the floor.

  He tapped Tommy Lee’s leg with the .38’s muzzle. He stirred. He tapped again and Tommy Lee rolled over, eyes squinted, confusion on his face.

  “What’s going on?” Tommy Lee asked. His voice thick with sleep.

  “That’s what I want to ask you.”

  “What?” He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. “What are you doing here?”

  “Where’s your phone? The burner?”

  Tommy Lee rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “The phone. Where is it?”

  Tommy Lee reached for the bedside lamp.

  “No lights.”

  “What the hell is going on?” He started to stand.

  He pushed the barrel into Tommy Lee’s chest. “Sit.”

  “What the fuck are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Did you call?”

  “What? No.”

  “Someone did. So, I ask again, where is the other fucking phone?”

  “In my office.”

  “Show me.”

  He followed Tommy Lee down the hall, where a search of his desk drawers found nothing. Floor beneath his desk, filing cabinets, closet. Each pulled open and examined. Still nothing.

  Tommy Lee dropped into the chair behind his desk. “It was in this middle drawer. I swear.”

  “And now it’s not.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What makes sense is that someone else has it. Someone who called me. Someone who must know what it means.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you. Who did you tell?”

  “No one. Jesus, why would I?”

  That actually made sense. Didn’t change things though. “Who had access to your house?”

  “No one.”

  “Someone did.”

  Tommy Lee shook his head. “Tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t have time.”

  He raised the gun.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “SO WHY DO you think something’s wrong?” Chief Morgan asked Roy Polk.

  “Like I told you on the phone, he didn’t show up this morning. Ain’t like him. He’s got two charters today. The first was at seven thirty. Three guys.” Roy shook his head, his long stringy hair pulled back in a ponytail wagging with the movement. “And they ain’t none too happy.”

  It was near nine now.

  Morgan knew Roy. Had for years. Did all sorts of odd jobs. Mainly on Tommy Lee’s boat for the last couple of years. Plus construction, yard work, anything requiring muscle and sweat. Hard worker as far as Morgan could tell. Never had any run-ins with the law, for sure.

  Morgan never knew Roy to be an alarmist, usually the opposite, a relaxed, unhurried attitude. But, right now, Roy wore healthy concern creases across his brow.

  “Maybe he slept in?” Morgan said.

  “Ain’t like him to do that. Besides, I banged on his door pretty good.” He glanced toward the house. “Figured that’d wake him up if he was in there.”

  “He say he had anywhere to go? Last night or this morning?”

  Another headshake from Roy. “Not that I know. He had a night charter last night. I couldn’t make it, and I guess the other guys he uses as deck hands couldn’t neither, so he went out on his own.”

  “I take it he came back from that?”

  “Yep. His boat’s at the dock. Just like always. We was supposed to meet there about six thirty. So we could get it ready. When he didn’t show, I went ahead and got it all set up. Then seven thirty rolled around, and no Tommy Lee. I called a few times but got no answer. By eight I was worried and by eight thirty, I sent the customers back to their hotel. Said I’d call when I knew something. That’s when I came here.”

  Morgan stood at the curb, near Roy’s red pickup, now eyeing Tommy Lee’s house. “You go inside?”

  “Nope. I wouldn’t walk into a man’s house without an invite.” He rubbed his nose with an index finger. “I tried the front door. Figured I’d stick my head in and give him a shout. It was locked. I peeked ’round back, thinking maybe he was out there doing something. Nope. His truck’s there in the drive.” He pointed that way.

  Morgan nodded. “You wait here. I’ll take a look.”

  The front door was indeed locked and Morgan saw no one through the front window. Everything seemed normal. Nothing out of place. He circled toward the back, checking the windows along the way. Dining room, kitchen empty. The rear door was unlocked.

  “Tommy Lee,” he shouted after cracking open the door. “It’s Chief Morgan. You here?”

  Silence.

  He shouldered his way in, pulling his service weapon. He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to have the gun in his hand, but its weight afforded a degree of comfort. There was something in the air. Like low-level electricity. Sweat gathered on his forehead, upper lip.

  He went room to room, kept yelling Tommy Lee’s name. Dining room, living room, first bedroom, all empty, orderly in a lived-in fashion.

  Tommy Lee’s room. Bed messed up. Slept in. No Tommy Lee. Next room. Tommy Lee’s office. That’s where he found him. Slumped in the chair behind his desk. Left eye gone, back of his head blown out. Blood and brain matter peppered the wall and curtains behind.

  Morgan froze. Even his breathing stopped. A trickle of sweat eased down his cheek. He took a ragged breath and began visually sorting through the scene before him.

  No weapon. No signs of a struggle. Tommy Lee had been shot sitting right there in his chair. He circled the desk, careful to avoid the bloodstains. He touched Tommy Lee’s forearm. Cold. He’d been dead awhile.

  Now he took in the remainder of the scene. Desk drawers pulled out. A few papers on the floor. Over the blood. Tossed after Tommy Lee was shot. Closet stood open. Two banker-type boxes lay overturned, contents on the floor. More papers.

  He retraced his steps. Now, he saw that the sofa cushions were disheveled as if someone had lifted them and not replaced them properly. Cabinet beneath the TV open. A disturbed row of DVDs. A couple had fallen to the carpet.

  In Tommy Lee’s bedroom, the bedside drawer yawned. Inside, a pair of readers, a paperback, a bottle of aspirin, another of Benadryl. The closet door stood open, a few clothes on the floor, shoes lined along the top shelf. Disarrayed, one shoe on the floor.

  He returned to Tommy Lee’s office. He stood in the middle of the room, facing Tommy Lee’s corpse, and began taking a visual and mental inventory of all he saw. Studying the details. You never knew what might be important, and he wanted to cement it in his mind before he called in the troops.

  “What the hell?”

  Morgan turned to see Roy Polk standing there. All bug-eyed.

  “I thought I told you to wait outside.”

  “You did. But you was gone kinda long and I thought maybe you needed help.”

  “Go on now. This ain’t something you need to see.”

  Polk hesitated, his gaze falling over the scene one last time. He turned and left.

  Morgan walked back into the living room. Stood for a minute. What the hell? Only one conclusion. Whoever shot Tommy Lee was looking for something.

  He made two calls. Frank Clark, telling him to round up Munson and get over there. Pathologist Dr. Adrian McGill.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  IT WAS NEAR ten thirty. Ray leaned on The Boardwalk railing, paper coffee cup he had picked up at Swift’s Bakery in his hand, staring out toward the marina. The sky was clear, not a single cloud visible, but the day was already beginning to heat up.
He could feel it on his back as the sun just topped the buildings and began lighting up The Boardwalk.

  Pancake stood next to him, gnawing on the ham and cheese croissant he’d chosen from Swift’s counter. They’d had breakfast only an hour earlier, over at McGee’s, but the big guy never passed up food. One of the many things he loved about Pancake. And envied. But he could never eat like the big old redhead. Not physically possible. Not to mention he’d need an entire new wardrobe.

  They’d been talking about the cell phones. Neither doubted that they provided proof positive of some sort of murder conspiracy. Nothing else made sense.

  Some might say it could merely be a coincidence. But Ray knew better. Serendipity wasn’t in play here. If it ever really was. There were no true coincidences. Not in human behavior. There was always a glue that held seemingly disparate events together. In this case, the glue was the cell phone and neither he nor Pancake doubted it married Tommy Lee Kovac to Frank Clark.

  The facts were that the phones were purchased after the murder of Loretta Swift and used around the time of the Noleen Kovac and Sara Clark killings. Then nothing. Until now. Why now, after two years? Only one thing had changed. They had arrived and begun asking questions.

  Someone was panicked. Or two someones. Clark and Tommy Lee.

  He had to admit that their scheme was nearly perfect. Brilliant, in fact. Perfect alibis, perfect evidence. Neat and clean. No one to ask questions.

  Except for Billy Wayne Baker. Had he simply faded away in prison, or had Jason Levy not reached out to him, become his benefactor, the plan would have worked. Clark and Tommy Lee would have skated. God bless Billy Wayne’s little sociopathic soul.

  Now the problem was how to shake them from the tree. Prove the other phone was indeed possessed by Frank Clark. Of course, if Clark were smart, he’d destroy it. Deny he ever had it. It’d be his word against Tommy Lee’s. A battle Clark would easily win. He was the cop, the aggrieved husband; Tommy Lee the man with a hard-on for the police department. No contest.

  He smiled. It was beginning to look as though Nicole had been right. This sure smelled like a murder exchange. Just like in the movies. The more he knew of her, the more clever she seemed. Maybe some of it would rub off on Jake. Probably not.

  He looked down to where she and Jake stood. Near the wharf. Jake with a cup of coffee, Nicole with her head resting against his shoulder. Was she the one? The one that would finally make Jake grow up? He could only hope.

  He had to admit, grudgingly so, that he held a certain degree of admiration for Jake sticking to his own life choices. Even if he couldn’t understand them. Lord knows, he’d tried to guide Jake into the business. His business. But, at every turn, Jake had refused. Maddening, but then again, hadn’t he raised him to think for himself, be his own man? File that under unintended consequences.

  Truth was, Jake would be a very effective P.I. Sure, parts of the job were high-tech, the kinds of things Pancake could do in his sleep, but mostly it was getting people to talk. To tell their stories, and their secrets. Jake knew people. No doubt about that. And people liked him. Tall, handsome, with an easy, laid-back attitude, folks seemed to warm to him quickly. Feel at ease. For a P.I., that’s gold.

  “Been looking for you guys.”

  Ray turned. Chief Charlie Morgan walked up.

  “You found us.”

  “Yeah, Louise Phillips over at the Tidewater said you guys had headed this way.”

  “Good police work.” Ray smiled. “So, what’s up?”

  Morgan looked up and down The Boardwalk. Already getting crowded. “Let’s take it over to my office.”

  “Sounds serious,” Pancake said.

  “Sure is.”

  Ray nodded. “Let’s go.”

  He called to Jake and Nicole. When they turned and looked that way, he waved them up. The foursome then followed Morgan to the police station.

  As they walked, Pancake leaned toward him and whispered, “How do you read this?”

  “Don’t know. But he doesn’t look happy.”

  Pancake grunted. “Don’t walk happy either.”

  Which was true. Morgan’s strides were long, purposeful. As if he wanted to get down to business.

  “You think he stumbled on why we’re really here?” Pancake asked. “Maybe got word from someone up in Raiford? One of the guards?”

  “That’d mean Billy Wayne was talking out of school. My read on him is that’s not likely.”

  Another grunt. “I suspect we’ll know in a hot minute.”

  When they entered the police station, they ran into Angus Whitehead, standing in the lobby, tucking in his shirt, shoving his tangled hair back from his face.

  “Hey there,” Angus said.

  Ray nodded.

  “Angus, you still here?” Morgan asked. “I told you two hours ago it was time to hit the road.”

  Angus humped his shoulders. “Guess I nodded off.” He grinned at Ray. “Too much to drink last night.”

  “Which is every night for you,” Morgan said.

  Angus’ head bobbed. “True that.” He grinned. “Man’s got to have a hobby. Mine involves whiskey.” He headed toward the door, waving over his shoulder. “I ’spect I’ll see you this evening, Chief.” And he was out the door.

  Morgan turned down the hall toward his office, Pancake following. Ray waited, stopping Jake and Nicole.

  “Now that I think about it, it’s probably best if Pancake and I handle this.”

  “What’s going on?” Jake asked.

  “Don’t know. But I’m picking up an odd vibe.”

  Jake stepped toward him. Lowered his voice. “You think our cover is blown?”

  “Pancake asked the same thing.” Ray glanced toward the entrance, shook his head. “Feels like more than that.”

  “Okay. Nicole and I’ll go have a chat with Angus. The conversation Pancake and I had with him the other day left some unanswered questions.”

  “Sounds good.”

  When Ray entered Morgan’s office, Frank Clark and Terry Munson were there, standing beside Morgan’s desk. Morgan had settled in his chair. Pancake and Ray sat facing the trio. Ray studied them. Not a smile to be seen.

  “What’s this about?” Ray asked Morgan.

  “I understand you two were over near Tommy Lee’s place last night.”

  Ray looked at Clark. “Like we told Detective Clark, we were out for a walk.”

  “You didn’t go by Tommy Lee’s place?”

  “We don’t even know where he lives.”

  Morgan seemed to consider that for a few seconds. “I see. But you do know him? Met him?”

  “Sure,” Pancake said. “In fact, I talked with him yesterday. Down on the dock. He was getting ready to head out.”

  “What’d you talk about?” Clark asked.

  “A charter. We were going to call him this morning and set up a trip.”

  “Is that the last time you saw him?” Morgan asked.

  “No,” Ray said. “We saw him come in last night. Maybe nine or so.”

  Morgan glanced at Clark, back to Ray. “Saw him where?”

  “We were down by the marina. He came in with a group of fishermen.”

  “You talk to him then?”

  Ray shook his head. “We figured he’d be busy closing down his boat, cleaning it up, all that. Didn’t want to interfere with the man’s work. Setting up a charter could wait until today.”

  “You didn’t happen to drop by his place last night? Later?”

  “Am I missing something here?” Ray asked.

  “Exactly where were you when you saw Tommy Lee last night?” Munson asked. “And who were you with?”

  Ray leaned forward. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation.”

  Morgan shrugged. “That’s because it is.”

  “About what?” Ray asked.

  “Tommy Lee got himself killed last night,” Clark said.

  “What?” Pancake said.

  “Just w
hat I said. Someone shot him in the head. Cold-blooded.”

  The phone call, Ray thought. Whoever answered did indeed get spooked. Had to clean house. He held Clark’s gaze. “What does that have to do with us?”

  Clark smiled. “You were there. Maybe a block from Tommy Lee’s house.”

  “So were you.”

  Clark’s smile evaporated. “Want to give us your timeline last night?”

  “Do you?”

  “Look, we’ve welcomed you here,” Munson said. “Even helped you with your little project. And then this?”

  Ray got it. Munson stepping up. Protecting his partner. Letting Ray know this was a united front. It’s what he’d do.

  “I fail to see how the two are related,” Ray said.

  “Who found him?” Pancake asked.

  Morgan leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight. He nodded to Clark.

  “One of his deck hands,” Clark said. “Tommy Lee had a charter this morning. Seven thirty. He didn’t show so by eight thirty or so he got worried and went over to Tommy Lee’s. No answer. Called us.”

  “Who?” Ray asked. “The deck hand?”

  “Guy named Roy Polk,” Clark said.

  “He a suspect?” Ray asked. “Maybe Tommy Lee and he had issues. Maybe he owed this guy some money?”

  “Not likely,” Clark said. “But we’ll have another chat with him.”

  “Anybody else on your suspect list?” Pancake asked.

  “Besides you two?” Clark said.

  “Yeah, besides us.”

  “We ain’t had much time to sniff around yet,” Munson said. “Tommy Lee ain’t even cold yet.”

  “So, your timeline?” Morgan injected.

  “After we saw Detective Clark on our walk, we went back to the marina. Sat in the gazebo until maybe ten thirty, eleven.” He looked at Clark. “We saw Tommy Lee come in. Well after we saw you.”

  “Who?” Munson asked. “You two, your son, and his girlfriend?”

  “And Betty Lou and her daughter. We had whiskey and cigars.”

  The furrows in Morgan’s brow relaxed. Seemed that putting Betty Lou in the mix took some steam out of his expression.

  “Then what?” Clark asked.