Choke (19 page)

“Oh, good,” Winfield said, relaxing a bit. “So what
is
your interest in this matter?”

“During Mr. Carman’s investigation of … the missing person in question, he came to me unofficially to check out some things. I wasn’t able to give him any pertinent information, but when I heard of the manner of his death, I looked into it, and it occurred to me that there might be a direct connection between Mr. Carman’s death and the matter he was pursuing.”

“It was my impression that Mr. Carman met his death as the result of one of those ugly tourist killings that seem to be plaguing Florida these days.”

“I’m inclined to think that’s not the case, sir, although I believe some effort was made to make it appear to be such a murder.”

“That’s very interesting,” Winfield said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Also, it appears there might possibly be a connection between the missing person in question …”

“His name is Marin,” Winfield said; “you may use it.”

“Between Mr. Marin and another case I’m investigating.”

“And what case would that be, Mr. Sculley?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it at this stage, sir, but I believe that if I were able to locate Mr. Marin, it might materially help my investigation.”

“Is Marin a suspect in your case? I mean, should you find him would you wish to arrest and try him?”

“No, sir, it’s not that kind of connection. I just believe Marin could be of help in resolving a difficult case. Actually, it’s a long shot, but you and I may have some mutual interests.”

“Should you find Marin, what would be your course of action?”

“I would detain him on a minor charge and notify Ms. Cortez immediately.”

“And how long would he be likely to be in custody?”

“I could hold on to him for twenty-four hours, maybe more.”

“I see,” Winfield said. “And what do you want of me?”

“As I understand it, you knew Mr. Marin well. It would be of great assistance to me if you could tell me as much as possible about him.”

“May I have your word that you have no other official interest in Marin than to question him in your other case?”

“You have it, sir.”

“Very well. What would you like to know?”

“When did you first meet Mr. Marin?”

“Our families knew each other when we were very young, and we were both at Stanford; he was a couple of years ahead of me in law school. When I graduated I went to see him, and he helped me gain a position in the firm he was working for at the time. Later we left together and opened this firm. We did very well. After many successful years together we occasioned to have a very large amount of money in the firm’s trust account, as the result of a real estate transaction we had just closed. Before the funds could be transferred to the client, Marin raided the trust account and decamped with the funds.”

“May I ask how much he took?”

“That’s not really important; let’s say many millions of dollars.”

“You went to the police, of course.”

“I did not. If I had done so the resulting publicity would have destroyed the firm. I made arrangements to replace the funds—with great difficulty, I might add—and our clients were simply told that Marin had taken his own life, a notion which he took some pains to further.”

“If you’ll forgive me saying so, sir, that’s extraordinary.”

“I’m aware of that; nevertheless, it’s what I did. To this day, I do not wish for any client of mine to know that a member of this firm behaved in such a manner. That is why I hired Mr. Carman, so that this matter might be resolved in a private manner.”

“And if Marin is found, how do you intend to resolve it?”

“That question, Mr. Sculley, is outside the parameters of this discussion. Now, what else do you wish to know about Marin?”

Ground broken, Tommy took out his notebook and began in earnest. “Let’s begin with a description; height and weight, et cetera?”

“Six-two, about two hundred and forty pounds, thick dark hair, brown eyes.”

“Did you ever know him to be slimmer than two-forty?”

“He was always beefy, muscular, an athlete.”

“What sports?”

“In high school he played football; maybe that’s where the weight came from. Later it was tennis, swimming, golf; he played all three for Stanford. When he got out of college some of the muscle turned to fat, I guess. The only sport he played with any regularity was golf.”

“What sort of personality?”

“Gregarious, charming, very smooth.”

“Did he ever do any scuba diving?”

“No. He did sail, though. He kept a small sailboat at Marina del Rey.”

“What was his taste in women?”

“He liked them very beautiful. His wife was, and although he never talked about it, I suspected he played around.”

“Where’s his wife now?”

“Remarried. It wouldn’t do any good to try and see her; she wouldn’t talk about him. She believes that he took his own life.”

“Any vices? Drink, gambling, drugs?”

“He drank in moderation, didn’t use drugs. He never seemed to be interested in gambling.”

“If he didn’t kill himself, how do you think he managed to disappear so thoroughly?”

“I believe he planned it all very carefully. He knew there were times when the trust account would have a lot of money in it. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’d planned it for years; he was very methodical, thorough.”

“How do you think he could move around such a large sum of money without attracting attention?”

“He was very clever in financial dealings. My guess is he had planned a way to move the money offshore in a hurry, probably to some place with banking secrecy laws like Switzerland or the Cayman Islands.”

“Had he had a lot of experience with such transactions?”

Winfield looked at him sharply for a moment, then answered. “Yes,” he said.

“Can you think of anything else that might help me? Some personal characteristic to look out for? Some weakness?”

“Nothing I haven’t already told you. As for weaknesses, he always appeared not to have any. He was a very self-confident man.”

Tommy closed his notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Winfield. It’s unlikely you’ll hear from me directly again; if I learn anything I’ll communicate it to Ms. Cortez.”

Back in the car, Rita was the first to speak. “Did that help you any? Does Marin sound like your dead guy in Key West?”

Tommy shrugged. “Might be, might not. There are some similarities, but who knows?”

“Can I buy you dinner tonight?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a plane to catch.”

Rita laughed ruefully. “The good ones have always got a plane to catch.”

O
n his first morning back in Key West Tommy picked up Daryl and headed for Dey Street, along the way explaining what he had learned in Los Angeles.

“Sounds to me like the guy
could
be Carras,” Daryl said, “but what are you going to talk to Clare about?”

“I thought I’d just mention some of this stuff and see how she reacts,” Tommy replied.

“Pull over a minute, Tommy.”

Tommy stopped the car. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, our experience so far with this lady is that she doesn’t give away much, at least she hasn’t so far. She didn’t bat an eye when we nearly caught her with the boyfriend, right?”

“Right.”

“So, you go and lay all this Marinello stuff on her, and she’ll just stare you down.”

“You got a point.”

“Also, she could bolt and leave us holding a very big bag.”

“Not without selling the house and the yacht, she won’t.”

“She might, if you scare her enough. Especially if she thinks the people in L.A. know who and where she is.”

Tommy thought it through. “You’re right; it’s not worth the risk. Maybe what we should do is to reassure her, make her more comfortable.”

“I like that better,” Daryl said.

“You’re wise beyond your years, kid.”

Clare Carras made a very good widow, Tommy thought. She seemed a little more demure today, more restrained, more dignified.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked when she had arranged herself on a sofa.

“I just wanted to bring you up to date on our investigation, Mrs. Carras.”

“I would appreciate that,” she said.

“I know it won’t come as a surprise to you that we have concluded that your husband’s death could not have been an accident.”

“I should think not. Do you have a suspect?”

“We do. In spite of my initial reservations, I now believe that Chuck Chandler murdered your husband.”

She sighed. “I didn’t want to believe it myself,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve been drawn to that conclusion myself.” Her voice was full of regret.

Tommy was impressed by her performance. “He seems to be our best bet.”

“Have you arrested him yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the weight of evidence points to him; he certainly had a motive, and there is reason to believe he had the technical skills to accomplish it, but we don’t have any physical evidence to link him to the crime. The way things are, in a trial his lawyer would certainly try to implicate you in order to get him off.”

“Me?” She seemed astonished.

“Of course I don’t believe it, but a clever lawyer could hang a motive on you—to further your husband’s death in order to inherit his wealth—and opportunity—you were on the boat often enough. The mechanical skills involved are not that great.”

“I see,” she said.

Daryl was right: he couldn’t read what she was thinking. Still, he could make a wild guess.

They met behind a failed, boarded-up restaurant off Highway 1, near Islamorada. Clare meant to keep this short, but he was insistent. She had to administer a quick fellating before he was satisfied, and she used all her skills to bring him off quickly. When she was done, she started in quickly with her purpose, before he could recover himself and demand more.

“We’ve got a problem,” she said.

“What’s that? I thought everything was going smoothly now, with Carman out of the way.”

“That situation is resolved; you did good work, but we have another problem.”

“What is it?” he sighed, zipping up his trousers.

“The police believe Chuck killed Harry, but Sculley says he doesn’t have enough evidence to make it stick.”

“What else could he possibly need?”

“Something conclusive, something that would wrap up the whole thing.”

“Such as?”

“I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“Maybe we should just arrange a suicide for him. You know, the weight of guilt was too much. Maybe he could blow his brains out in some secluded spot.”

He shook his head. “That might just make them even more suspicious of you.”

“You’re right, I guess. Sculley said that a good lawyer could make a case for me having a motive.”

“Not a doubt of it.”

“Then we have to arrange something else, some piece of physical evidence that the D.A. can hold up to a jury and say, ‘See, he did it, no doubt.’”

“That may be easier said than done.”

“Oh, you can handle it, sweetie,” she said, pinching his nipple.

Now he seemed impervious to her attentions, pushing her hand away.

“Why don’t we just leave things the way they are? Maybe they can’t convict Chandler, but they can’t get you for it, either, and they don’t have a clue about me. Just be patient, sell the house and the boat and let people know you’re leaving. Tell them you’re moving to New York or something. You could even contact a real estate agent up there, go up and look at some apartments. Then, when nobody’s worrying about you anymore, I’ll abandon ship and meet you someplace nice.”

“No, I don’t want this left unresolved. I want somebody convicted, and it’s going to have to be Chuck. Otherwise, the police might one day decide they have some more questions for me and come looking.”

“By that time you’ll have a new identity, we both will, and we’ll be long gone.”

“I just don’t want them looking for me, for any reason. I want this wrapped up tight. Come up with something.”

He sighed again. “All right, I’ll think on it.” He reached for her.

“No,” she said. “We can’t take a chance staying here any longer. I’ll go first; you wait.”

Grudgingly, he got out of the car and waved good-bye.

She pulled back onto the highway, looking around to be sure she hadn’t been followed. He’d come up with something, she was sure of it. In the meantime, she’d have to turn her own attention to the problem.

C
huck stepped out of the lawyer’s office into the sun, and he did not like the way he felt. He was in excellent health, an athlete, and he was accustomed to feeling perfectly well, but now there seemed to be a cold, solid object resting in his stomach, and his head hurt.

He had not liked what he heard from the lawyer. It was obvious, the man had said, that Chuck was the chief suspect, and he might look forward to being arrested in the near future. He had the lawyer’s card in his pocket, with instructions to make the first phone call to him when the ax fell. He had signed some papers that would make arranging bail easier, using his boat as collateral.

Chuck was not looking forward to being under indictment. If that happened, teaching tennis would be a thing of the past. Merk would have to let him go, and he had no other way of earning a living.

As he walked to the car he added up his assets: the boat, the car, two thousand dollars in the bank, and about sixty thousand in his retirement account, plus a few bonds. A trial could reduce the total of all that to zero; the lawyer had made that plain. Once he had been indicted, the snowball would start to roll, and it would be rolling downhill, getting bigger as it went. He could not allow himself to be arrested, it was as simple as that. But how to avoid it?

He drove slowly back to the boat, went aboard, opened himself a beer, and sat heavily down on the afterdeck to drink it. He took a few sips, then looked up and saw his colleague, Victor, standing on the deck of the Raw Bar, talking to a blonde. He waved, catching Victor’s eye, and Victor waved back, then turned his attention once again to the girl.