by T. J. Jones
That left the family business to Frank, and by all accounts it wasn't going great. Maggie had hinted that he might be struggling financially, which might have been motivation to get his fingers into things he shouldn't have. It was a big jump from shady Real Estate mogul to child slave marketeer, and I really didn't think he would be directly involved, but he might know someone who was. He might have a rich client who was that seedy, who knew what Davey was doing and demanded a favor. Frank wouldn't necessarily have even known the particulars, or that Davey was in mortal danger. Unlike most of my suspects, what separated Frank was the fact that he knew about the horse barn, and that seemed key. From the details Edith Templeton had shared, I knew it was where Frank's only son had been conceived.
The Jeffries building was all office space. A quick computer search confirmed what I had overheard in conversation at the Jeffries dinner table over the years. Gary had a beach adjacent home in Lauderdale that they used to entertain rich clients and politicians, and at one time it had slipped out that there was even a boat, docked in a private slip. Remarkably, neither Rita nor either of the girls had ever been there. With Gary dead, I wasn't sure if Frank still had the property or not, but he had to live somewhere.
It took a while, but I found the county record and its location. I had searched for it in Frank's and the business's name, then every shell corporation I could dream up that he might have used for a name. Finally, I had a thought and searched for it under Angela Jeffries. The house and boat were both in her name. Perhaps that was to avoid eventual estate taxes, although I doubted it. Considering the usage, I figured it should be listed as an asset of the corporation, but I was no tax guy. It was possible, considering her dead husband's fortune, that she had bought both the property and the boat as some kind of a loan to her father.
If that was the case, it seemed to me he should be a whole lot nicer to his daughter. But then it was my opinion he should be nicer to both his daughters. He was sixty-three years old, but it had crossed my mind more than once that it would feel good to punch the guy. I had never liked the way he treated his wife or either of his daughters. I knew I was letting my disdain for him taint my objectivity, but my gut kept telling me he was involved somehow. I canceled my flight to Miami and the car rental. I decided I would take my pickup and just drive to Lauderdale.
***
Since I had to go right by Titusville, I thought maybe I would stop and pick Sandy Foster's brain for any more details she could remember. Our meeting had been stressful for her and I knew it was possible she had thought of things after the fact that might be helpful. A part of me wanted to just sit and talk about Davey. Knowing what he had done for her and others took the edge off Rosalyn's story. Now that I knew that Maggie and Angela were his sisters, his being a good guy seemed doubly important.
I had pictures of Frank I'd found on his website. It seemed unlikely, but it wouldn't hurt to show them to her. I called Susy first, just in case Sandy would be uncomfortable with me calling directly. I had nothing to compare it to, but being held captive for that long had to change your perspective on life, and in her case, on men in general.
"I'll call her and tell her you want to stop by. She liked you, so I'm sure she'll be okay with it." Susy said.
"Want to have lunch tomorrow? I'm curious about your boss, Gleason. Maybe you could bring me one of your flyers with Gleason's picture on it. I'm checking on some things in Lauderdale after I leave Sandy's, then I'll stay over in Miami."
"You can Google it. I'm actually going up to stay with Sandy tonight, probably stay the weekend with her. She's having a tough time, PTSD more or less. She thinks she saw the guy that kidnapped her, at the local Walmart."
"Wow. Any chance she did? Maybe he's back in Florida."
"Seems unlikely, she admitted she couldn't be sure. She said he looked completely different."
"Maybe I shouldn't stop there today."
"No, go ahead. She needs to work through this, learn to trust people again."
"Anyway, I'm going to be in Miami, maybe talk to Sam and check on a couple of other things."
"I told him we talked, so he knows you're one of the good guys."
"How about on the way back north I'll call you and we can grab a bite. There is something I wanted to talk to you about, and I can tell you the story of how Maggie got shot by a psycho biker. She's fine, but it was a little too exciting."
"Wow, sounds like it! When are you heading home? I'll stay at Sandy's all weekend, then drive in to work on Monday morning. We can't talk over the phone?"
"Maybe not the best idea, I'm starting to wonder if my cell phone is hacked. I'll probably drive home Sunday, we could meet early afternoon."
"I'll text you an address, a decent restaurant that isn't too busy on Sundays. Just let me know what time."
"Maybe just you and I, if Sandy will be alright alone. I don't want to worry her any more than she already is."
"Yeah, sounds good, I'll see you then. I'll let her know you're coming by today."
***
Sandy was nervous. She pulled the curtain aside and peeked out at me hesitantly, looking in both directions beyond me as far as she could see before opening the door. I stepped in and she slammed it shut quickly, dropped two chain locks into place and spun the deadbolt before turning back to me. Every shade in the house was drawn. I was a little startled when she walked over to the end table of the couch and put down a small revolver that she had been carrying.
"Is that a good idea?" I motioned at the gun as she opened the refrigerator to grab me an iced tea.
"I saw him, day before yesterday. He looks really different, but I know it was him. First thing I did when I moved here was bought a gun and learned how to use it. I had a boyfriend for a while and I felt a little safer then, but I ran him off with my craziness."
"Sorry, I can't imagine what you went through. Still, be careful you don't shoot yourself."
"Do you own a gun?" When I nodded, she said. "Be careful you don't shoot yourself."
I chuckled. "Good one. My bad, I'm being sexist. I'd say shoot me but I'm afraid you might."
We joked about the state of feminism and the world in general and after a while she calmed down. "He looked completely different, no white hair, he'd shaved his head, and he lost a lot of weight. I didn't see his face, but he was talking to a clerk and I recognized his voice. I just turned and ran out of there fast as I could."
"Hard to be sure without seeing his face, right?"
"That's what Susy keeps saying. Trust me, I know. I just know."
"Can I show you a picture? Maybe not Whitey, but maybe someone who knows him, someone you might have seen."
She took the picture and stared at it for a long time, then handed it back. "Something about him is familiar. Has he been on television?"
"It's possible he's done some commercials, he is a real estate guy. I just moved back here about six weeks ago, so he might have had something on I don't know about."
"Looks like a car salesman. I probably saw him on some ad or something. He's definitely not the guy that doped me and threw me on that airplane."
"Well, that's good, one person off my list." We talked for half an hour about her captivity, if she had seen the faces of any of the Americans who came to the brothel that was her prison. I left feeling angry again, but with little more new information.
I got in my pickup and backed out, thinking to drive back to the Seven-Eleven for gas and a coffee. There was a dark colored sedan parked up the street. I had driven by a municipal playground across the street from the car, so I thought that maybe it was just a lazy father letting his kid swing by himself. I drove slowly in his direction and looked the playground over. There wasn't a single kid in the park. I pulled up across from him and stopped. He glanced at me and I glared back at him, waiting for some sort of a reaction, a brief wave, a nod, even a middle finger. Nothing. He wore a plain dark suit and had a book spread out across his steering wheel. The easiest way to find somet
hing out is to ask, so I got out of my truck and walked across the street toward the car.
He barely acknowledged my existence, but I saw him reaching in his coat pocket. Had he rolled his window down I would have been reaching for my new gun. He didn't, just flipped his wallet open and plastered it against the glass of his side window. The shield was big enough to read from where I stood. FBI. He spared me a glance and I nodded to him, then got in my truck and headed for Fort Lauderdale.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one interested in Sandy Foster. It seemed odd that my stopping at Sandy's hadn't pulled the agent away from his book, but then maybe he knew who I was and that I was coming. Maybe my phone was hacked, and maybe Maggie and I weren't the only ones investigating Davey Templeton's death.
***
First thing I did in Fort Lauderdale was locate Frank Jeffries slip. The estate that Gary Jeffries had owned and now belonged to Angela, was off the water, tucked a quarter mile west of the Atlantic in a plush neighborhood of cobblestone driveways, fenced yards and electric gates. The good news was that it wasn't inside a gated community with a log book. Getting close without being noticed might be difficult and I had decided to wait for the cover of darkness to do my snooping. The last thing I wanted was for Frank Jeffries to see me.
The slip was empty, which I considered good news. I knew the boat was a day cruiser, a thirty-two footer, only capable of limited sea travel and not likely to be gone overnight. Odds were that it would be back in by dark, carrying Frank Templeton and some rich client, or possibly a small-time politician that had borrowed it to try to impress his girlfriend. I looked around for a place to wait without being noticed. There was an open-air restaurant on the roof of the marina that looked like a perfect observation point. It seemed reasonable to me that people would sit up there and observe the boats coming and going, maybe wait for relatives to come in off the water.
I hadn't expected it to be overly fancy, but the maître d looked at me and sniffed when I walked up the stairs with my binoculars in my hand. "Just don't want to miss my friends when they come in." I explained.
"This is a private club, sir. Your friend's name?"
"Jeffries, Angela Jeffries' boat, but it might be under her Dad's name." It was a calculated risk, I couldn't imagine he really cared. He flipped a book open and must have found their name in the roster. I was a little surprised when he asked for my name. "David Templeton." I said. I couldn't punch the old guy, but maybe I could get him wondering.
I took a tiny table on the far side of the roof, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible so the maître d wouldn't have any reason to chase me out of there. I nursed a drink, then another, then ordered a small dinner. By the time I had finished eating the sun was creeping down to the horizon behind me, and I was wondering if I'd been wrong about them bringing the boat back in. Every once in a while, I'd been scanning the little harbor with my field glasses. None of the other diners seemed to find it odd, one woman even commented that she wished she had thought of it, but Mr. Maître d kept shooting me angry looks. I had just finished my bowl of ice cream, my girth not with-standing, when I saw activity in the Jeffries' slip.
If I hadn't had the binoculars, it would have been too dark to recognize the people who climbed off the boat. As it eased up to the pier, a man with a shaved head and a slight, dark-skinned man jumped off the boat and tied it quickly to the dock. Then Frank Jeffries jumped down and helped three women down as well. I studied them all carefully. I knew Frank, but not the woman who wrapped her arm around his as they started walking toward the parking lot. No shocker there. I had no idea about the second man or his apparent date. Even though it was getting dark, he wore shaded glasses and tipped a hat onto his bald head as they followed Frank. The third couple I knew, and I watched them through the glasses for as long as I could, just to be sure. Samath Chopra and the girl he had rescued from a brothel in Singapore walked along casually and chatted happily with the other members of the group.
They walked to the parking lot and got in two separate vehicles. I hurried to the counter and tossed a hundred at the maître d, then ran down and jumped in my truck.
***
When I was nine or ten years old, I started watching Magnum PI. The show had nearly wrapped up before I was old enough to stay up that late, so I had to start at the beginning, and watch reruns of the earlier shows. Besides the fact that it was funny, Magnum always got the girl and there were a lot of scenes where the helicopter played an important part. I decided at a young age that being a PI might be a good job to have. By the time I was old enough to lust after Angela Jeffries the idea had worn thin, but I still remembered most of the episodes.
Magnum always seemed to stumble his way through any kind of crime and come out a winner. Often times he got beat up along the way, occasionally shot, and once he actually died until they renewed his contract. But there was one chink in his mustachioed armor that he never seemed to be able to circumvent, and they used it a lot. Dogs.
I had parked my truck down the street a good distance from the Jeffries' property and walked casually down the street like I belonged there. I was going in blind and had no idea of the layout of the place, if there were motion sensors, outside lighting, or any other kind of security. It was possible there would be a fence to scramble over, but I knew nothing. It was a poor plan, but I had driven all the way from Jacksonville so I decided I was going to at least try to get a peek at the house.
I didn't dare just walk down the long driveway in plain sight of the front window. The property was surrounded by thick palms and shrubbery six feet high, and after a quick look around for a friendly tree, I dropped to my hands and knees and shuffled along on the sidewalk, trying to find a hole big enough to squeeze through. I had to be quick because the street was well lit. In the corner of the lot, where the shrubbery met the neighbor's wooden fence, there was a small opening between the roots of the shrubs. I got down on the ground and bellycrawled through the tiny opening, then pulled my feet through and peered around, trying to decide how close to get.
That's when I thought about Magnum, when I smelled the distinct odor of dog shit. It was bad enough that I was covered with dirt, but the indignity of having my elbows in Fido's remains made it infinitely worse. What troubled me the most was that because it was dark, I couldn't tell, big dog or small dog? Any dog might be bad if they decided to let him out to do his business while I was lying there. Magnum had ended up head to head with Dobermans and Mastiffs, and I really hoped that wasn't what I would be up against.
Google Earth had showed me the main house with the garage attached and a smaller building behind that stood close to a small channel or backwater. I would have thought it was a boathouse, but there was a light on and I glimpsed movement, maybe a maid's quarters. It was pitch black, no moon, and only the porch light illuminated a small part of the yard. As I watched, the garage light winked on and the door started to lift.
I scurried into the corner of the yard and backed into the palms as far as I could and held perfectly still. Frank Jeffries walked out of the garage and out to the end of the driveway and grabbed mail from the mailbox, then went to the front door and stood there waiting. The woman I had seen him with earlier walked out of the service door of the garage and joined him. She was slender and looked to be in her mid-twenties with dark hair, possibly Latino. He bent down and kissed her and opened the front door.
A boy, maybe four or five rushed out and started chatting with them both. I could see a girl inside, probably the babysitter since she was blond, smiling and greeting the pair. I also spotted the dog, a German Shepard cross of some variety that looked like he was eager for his evening walk. As soon as the door closed, I belly crawled as fast as I could back through the opening, made it to the sidewalk and jogged the block and a half to my pickup. I climbed in and turned around so I wouldn't have to drive past the house.
Being a Private Investigator didn't seem like such a good idea right about then. I had branches in my hair, my s
hirt was ripped, my pants were filthy, and I reeked of dog feces. On top of it, I had uncovered the fact that Maggie's Dad was an even bigger dirtbag than I thought. He had a second family, and they were living in Angela's house. I would have almost preferred that I found proof that he was a murderer than to tell Maggie and Angela what was going on. I couldn't help wondering, what would Magnum do?
Chapter Sixteen
I slept in the next morning, then stayed in bed thinking about what I'd found out the night before. The internet was full of stories of people who were leading double lives, of men married to several women at once. I couldn't image anyone having that much energy. My guess was that Frank told his Fort Lauderdale family the same story he told Rita and the girls. Business. It was business alright, funny business.
The reality was that Frank and Rita's marriage had ended years before, and the girls were both adults, able to fend for themselves. The right thing for Frank to do was get a divorce, give up his free house and yacht, and be straight with both families. I wasn't sure that that was my call to make and I wasn't sure what the Private Detective handbook said about it. True, I was working for Angela, but on Davey's murder, not on uncovering the fact that her worthless, borderline abusive father had another family. I decided at the least, I would put it on the back burner and concentrate on the main reason I had come to south Florida, which was to find Davey's killer.
