Chasing Suspect Three (24 page)

“That’s what she wanted to do,” Kagan
exclaimed. “Her meeting Chip at seven wasn’t an alibi for John’s
murder. It was an alibi for Margo’s murder. She expected John to
shoot Margo that evening at seven, and wanted to be with a police
detective when it happened.”

She picked up on it, “John must have told
Claudia he intended to shoot Margo. Or they planned the murder of
Margo together, that might be it.” She sat back smiling. “Next
question is why? She wasn’t blocking his divorce.” Then she smacked
herself on the forehead with the palm of her hand. “The money!”

“Yes, follow the money. This definitely
brings Claudia into all this. He used her gun. And her statement
about the gun sounds phony. She didn’t know her gun was missing,
really? Maybe John borrowed it, really? And didn’t tell her,
really? It all sounds like the stuff I was always stepping in on my
grandfather’s farm. She is more involved than you seem to think.
Tag the murder on Claudia and your client walks.”

“I would dearly love to see Claudia in cold
hard handcuffs instead of those soft pink ones she described in
the—.” She caught herself. “I mean, which she no doubt has hanging
from her headboard.”

They declined another drink. He stood from
the table and gripped his cane. “I have three suggestions for you.
Number one, go back to investigating the Sandy Reid way. Prove the
Miami hoodlum was the killer and has no connection to your client.
Second, assume that Claudia is involved more than it appears. And
lastly, there is no Chip and Claudia thing going on. Why are you
trying to complicate the situation? Her meeting him again has
nothing to do with sex and everything to do with murder. So get
your head on straight.”

Wow. That was the kind of hard talk Chip
would sometimes lay on her. She probably needed it. But then again,
Jerry’s heart wasn’t at stake here.

“You know, we don’t see enough of each
other,” she said. “I’ve certainly enjoyed meeting with you today.
You’re one of the good guys.”

“At these infrequent times, I do enjoy seeing
and talking with you, as well. I’m so pleased you chose the
specialty of being a defense attorney. Jails are full of people
wrongfully convicted because of inadequate legal representation,
unfair persecutions, and faulty evidence. Without a doubt, you will
be outstanding.”

Almost blushing, she thanked him and offered
him a ride home, “My car’s at the office. Wait here, I’ll run over
and get it.”

He declined, explaining he preferred to
wobble over to the courthouse and see some old friends.

She hurried back to the office thinking of
his first suggestion to prove the Miami goon was the killer. Martin
was just stepping out the front door as she came up.

“Have you eaten?” he said. “It’s already one
o’clock, and I’m just going to lunch? Will you join me?”

“Thanks anyway, just had lunch with Jerry
Kagan. Tell me, how long would it take me to drive to Miami?”

“Three hours for a sensible person. Two for
you. What’s in Miami?”

“Killers, guilty people, answers, I hope.
I’ve never been there.”

“Unless you stay over, you’ll be driving back
in the dark. Miami can be dangerous at night, if you make the wrong
turn.”

“I grew up in Philly, remember? Any city is
dangerous at night if you don’t know the neighborhoods. Anyway, I
should be out of there before it gets too late.”

“I hope so. You want me to go with you?”

“No, if I decide to stay over, I’ll get in
touch.”

“Please do that, and keep the top up so
you’re not on display the entire time you’re down there.”

She blew him a kiss and went inside. She
phoned Jaworski. “Eddy, do the police have photos of Richie Grant
in the morgue?”

“The M.E. has them, and I’ve one or two views
also.”

“As defense counsel am I legally entitled to
photos?”

“I don’t know from legally entitled, but if
you want a copy drop by and get it. Judy knows where they are.”

She grabbed her briefcase and hurried out to
her car. Once settled in the front seat, she fumbled in the side
pocket of the briefcase for the wrinkled and smeared notepad slip
she took down from the condo refrigerator. Groveside Motel, Coconut
Grove. Looks like a good place to start, she said to herself. She
punched the address into her GPS.

Next was a quick stop at her apartment to
change into her one and only business suit—four hundred bucks, mind
you. She looked in the mirror. Her hair was a mess. Screw it, she’d
tie it back.
I’m driving with the top down anyway.
I’m
going goon hunting. How good do I have to look for that?

S
andy faced the
possibility her client would be found guilty of either murdering or
conspiring to murder her husband. In Florida, either charge can
bring life imprisonment or a lethal injection. The best case would
be that Richie acted alone in the murder, and Margo wasn’t part of
it at all. She’d love to prove that. Even better would be to blame
it all on Claudia. Wouldn’t that be fun?

So far, she couldn’t prove anything that
would keep Margo out of it. Richie Grant was firing his .38 all
over the place, yet there was no proof he fired a .45 at John. And
she knew nothing about him.

When the facts don’t add up, you investigate.
You run around and get people upset. You walk beside them and get
them talking. You might end up with more facts. Then again, you
might hear the sickening sound of a promising lead bashing a brick
wall.

She didn’t need to go knocking on the doors
of the Salvadoran drug gang. The FBI was already all over that part
of it. They were worrying about all the drug stuff and might take
weeks to find out anything about Richie Grant. Her goal was to
prove her client innocent. She needed to get the story on Richie
and prove he killed John with no connection to Margo. She needed to
know more about Richie. She needed to connect Richie Grant with the
Miami drug gang and disconnect him from her client.

John Larena had another life down in Miami.
Margo made a wifely guess that he had some sweetie down there
helping him pass those long boring nights in Miami. Wives usually
guess right about such things. It should be worth the trip. She’d
do some checking on his Miami life starting with the girlfriend.
All she had to do was somehow locate her somewhere in Dade County
without having a name or address.

She took out the note she had found under a
magnet on John’s refrigerator, the note with the smeared phone
number. At least the 305 Miami area code was legible. Geez, if she
could only make out the entire phone number.

She headed for the Groveside Motel in the
Coconut Grove area of Miami.

Two hours later, she was rolling under a
bright blue sky along elevated I-95. Passed the airport exit on the
right, the Miami Beach causeway exits on the left, and on into the
midst of the skyline buildings of downtown-Miami. She glanced at
the dashboard clock; she had just missed the start of the rush
hour.

Heading on south, I-95 became US-1 and South
Dixie Highway. Her GPS told her to turn east on SW 27th Avenue down
to Bayshore Drive which meandered amongst the canopy of banyan
trees with their thick multiple trunks spread out above ground
almost to the edge of the road.

When she turned off Bayshore, the GPS voice
soon announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” She braked
and glanced around, no Groveside Motel. She backed up. Sandwiched
between two large condominiums was a small two-level motel just
waiting to be sucked up for several million.

An attractive teenage girl with sun-streaked
hair and wearing a white sleeveless midriff and white short-shorts,
was behind the front desk.

“Hi, Kathy, how’s it going?” Sandy read the
girl’s nametag. “You the manager?”

The girl turned. “Chuck, get out here. Wow,
your car is wicked cool. What a hunk magnet that must be. Why don’t
you let me drive it?”

“Drive it? You can’t even touch it,” Sandy
said it with a smile, but she was serious.

“If I had a cool car like that, I’d never get
out of it. Except I’d need a larger back seat.”

Chuck was shorter than the girl, twice her
age, and twice as tanned. The victim had written on one of this
motel’s memo pads, had they ever heard of him? She was about to
find out if the motel memo lead was worthless. “I’m John Larena’s
sister, Claudia. He ever speak of me?”

Chuck said, “Lady, I don’t know what the
fu...what you’re talking about.”

Kathy spoke up, “Larena, Larena, number
twenty-six. Get with it, Chuck.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to
meet you, Claudia. John isn’t here. Haven’t seen him for a
week.”

Bingo. “I know. That’s why I’m here,” Sandy
said, thinking fast. “He won’t be back for some time. He wanted me
to check about any money he owed you.”

“He’s a monthly, pays in advance.” Chuck
said. “If he’s not coming back, if this is about getting a refund,
forget it. We don’t give refunds on monthlies.”

Sandy pretended to look disappointed. “No
refund, huh. You sure you can’t do it?” She gave him her flirty
look. Boy was she good.

He shook his head.

“John needs some of his things. May I get
some stuff out of his room?” Look around; maybe find something to
lead her to the girlfriend.

Kathy said, “I’ll take her up there,
Chuck.”

His hand went up like a traffic cop. “Stop.
You want something out of his room, you bring me a signed note from
him.”

“Why are you giving me a hard time?” Sandy
acted as though upset. “You know how far I had to drive? What if I
had him phone you?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s okay. Tell him to phone
me saying it’s okay.”

“I’ll do that, but I can’t reach him today.
You know you’re making me do another trip down here?”

Chuck’s shrug meant rules are rules.

She pretended to leave, and then turned back.
“What about his girlfriend? If she comes over, can she get in?”

“Seal has her own key,” Kathy said.

Bingo again. The name was what she was after
all along. “Of course, Seal can come over. Thanks guys.” So, her
nickname is Seal—maybe short for Cecilia. She stepped away, and
then turned again as though thinking. “Her last name is Lopez,
isn’t it?” It was the first Latin name that came to mind and worth
a shot; with luck they would correct her.

Kathy chuckled, “You’re not even close.”

Chuck was now eyeing her suspiciously.

“I’ll ask John,” Sandy said. Not wanting to
push it.

Once back in her car, she looked up and
smiled at the heavens. Learning the name of John’s girlfriend was a
fantastic beginning. Even so, with three million people in Dade
County the lead could totally fizzle out. She still needed to make
some more guesses. A couple of them would have to turn out
right.

Maybe the girlfriend’s name wasn’t Cecilia,
which was the first name she thought of. Perhaps, her last name was
Seal, or Sealburger, or whatever, and Seal was her nickname. If her
first name was in fact Cecilia, where to start looking? She went
back into the motel lobby.

“Hey, Kathy, come take a look at my car. You
can sit in the driver’s seat.”

Without further prompting, the girl trotted
around the counter and ran ahead of Sandy to the car. “Can I really
get behind the wheel?”

“Don’t slam the door!”

Kathy wiggled into the driver’s seat. She
moved the wheel back and forth and was instantly flying down
Miracle Mile with the wind in her hair, the stereo blaring, while
pushing away the awesome young hunk sitting next to her trying to
get his hands on her. She was still doing her “Ooohs and Aaahs”
when Sandy interrupted her. “John has had an accident, Kathy, I
positively must reach Seal. Do you know her last name?”

“Yeah, it’s Sevilla. A girl in my class has
the same last name. Come on let’s do the block in this baby.”

“Not yet.” Sandy opened her tablet and
started a Miami name search. “S-A-V-E-E what?”

“No, no, the Spanish double L. Let me.” Kathy
pushed Sandy’s hands out of the way and in a split-second blur of
fingers tapped in the name. She laughed. “How long you be this
country?”

The computer screen blossomed to life and
unexpectedly started scrolling page after page of names, addresses
and phone numbers. “Geez, there must over a hundred Sevillas in
Miami. Do you know her first name?”

“I just called her Seal like my friend at
school.” Chuck was now tapping his foot at the front entrance.
“Shit, gotta go. Can’t drive your cool car right now.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Sandy said. “Maybe next
time.”

Kathy hurried back into the motel. Sandy
noticed Chuck didn’t go in but stood out front watching her. Then
he took out his phone and started talking. Nothing unusual in that,
she supposed. In any case, it was best to get away from the
Groveside Motel, before he got any more suspicious. She backed out
of the motel parking lot and drove down the block out of Chuck’s
sight.

Hundreds of Sevilla and no first name. Sandy
hit the steering wheel with her palm. At the same time, she was
pleased with herself. Definite progress. Except for a first name,
she had located John’s girlfriend. That brought a grin to her
face.

What now? Have to get that first name. She
wondered how John had met the girlfriend. That one was easier; one
common place to meet the opposite sex is at work. Maybe they met at
the consulate. Worth a try. She sorted through her business cards
for Agent Jay Heppard and started to dial Mr. Adorable Kisser. The
FBI should have a roster of consulate employees since they’re
investigating the place. She could ask Heppard to search the list
for a young woman with the last name Sevilla. Would he
cooperate?

Wait. No good. Hand that name to the FBI, and
she’d be cutting herself out of the picture, and in return they
wouldn’t give her the shell off a peanut. It’d be a year before she
finally heard what had gone down. There had to be a better way.