Death Among the Mangroves (12 page)

“Yeah? And how do I know the next nigger-hating bastard won't shoot
me
?”

Troy thought on that a moment. He'd seen too much racial hatred in his own life and too often it had been reciprocal. “Sasha, if you carry this armor of distrust and hate surrounding yourself, there is no place for you to go that you will like.”
Easy thing to say
, Troy thought,
not so easy to live by
. “Give me a few days.”

Back in his office Troy dialed the phone. Lee Bell answered. “Lee, I need to get drunk someplace. Got any ideas?”

“You don't drink. Hard day at the office?”

“I'd forgotten. Too bad. And yes, everyone hates me. Apparently I'm a useless nigger, I'm annoying one of God's anointed, the high school kids think I'm a prude, and I'm not good at standup interviews with the press mob.”

“Poor baby. That is serious, all right. How about I buy at Joe's Stone Crab?”

“Joe's Stone Crab is in Miami Beach.”

“Yes, it is. And I own an airplane. Have you there in ninety minutes.”

“I like it. I'll tell Bubba to do the seven p.m. press briefing. He'll hate it. But we would have to come straight back after. Don't see us wandering down Ocean Drive knocking on hotel doors asking for a room a few days before New Year's. And there are no mangers on South Beach. Joseph and Mary would have gotten tickets for loitering.”

“Fly there all the time. You want the free food, big guy, or not?”

“You girls. You're all the same. You think we'll come across for a free dinner.”

“Sweetie, I
know
you will.”

Chapter 18

Tuesday, December 24

Cord MacIntosh was up his mainmast, working on the padding on the end of a spreader. His home and office was the
Black Pearl
, a forty-foot pilothouse ketch docked, when Cord was in town, at the Marjorie Park yacht basin on Davis Islands in Tampa.

It was just past noon when he heard a “halloo” from below. He looked down to see a man waving at him from the fence that sealed off the dock. “What do you need?” Cord asked.

“Are you Cordwainer MacIntosh? The private eye?” the man asked.

“That would be me. What can I do for you?”

“Looking to hire you,” the man said.

“I like you already,” Cord said. “Be just a moment.”

Cord finished wrapping more layers of duct tape around the spreader end so the genoa would not chafe against it if pulled in too tight.

He swung himself back to the mast, stood on the mast steps there, climbed down the mast steps to the cabin top, and went to open the locked gate in the fence. “Come on in,” he said.

They sat at the table in the pilothouse. “I'm Peter Gillispie,” the man said. Gillispie was four inches shorter than Cord's six foot-two but probably matched Cord's 185 pounds and he wore Gucci shoes with two buckles, sharply creased gray slacks and an open-neck white long-sleeved shirt with small gold coins for cufflinks. His iron-gray hair was cut short in a stiff flattop. In Cord's experience, men's hairstyles often froze about the age of 25. If this was a customer, Cord liked what he saw. The clothes were expensive, the gold coins promising, and the ghost-white appearance meant the man was a visitor from more northern climes where the pay scales were better.

“Cord MacIntosh,” Cord said. “We prefer ‘private investigator' to private eye. My eyeballs are my own and not for rent. Are you hungry? Want some lunch?”

“That would be good. Do you cook aboard this boat?”

“I do indeed,” Cord said. “But what I had in mind was walking over to a restaurant just a block away and eating there.”

At the restaurant and once they had attended to ordering food and a beer apiece, he nudged Gillispie back to business. “So, tell me what I can do for you, Peter.”

Gillispie wore tortoiseshell glasses and pushed them back up onto his nose. “My daughter is missing. Barbara. She went on college break to a town south of here called Mangrove Bayou. Do you know where that is?”

Cord nodded. “Been there, aboard my boat. They have a yacht club I can stay at. But normally there's no reason for me to visit. Except for the channel, the water there is too shoal for me.”

“Whatever that means. Anyway Barbara, my daughter, has vanished and I'm not convinced that the local rent-a-cops can find her. Or her body.”

“You assume she's dead?”

“Got to at this point. My wife refuses to believe it, but I like to face reality square on.”

“An admirable trait,” Cord said. “What do you do for a living, Peter?”

“I sell insurance.”

“What, door to door?”

Gillispie shook his head. “Not any more. Own an agency in Albany, New York. It does well. One thing people always need is insurance.”

Cord didn't actually have much insurance. He believed in fat bank accounts. He decided this was not the time for that discussion. “What is it that you need me for?” he asked.

“What I need…I want for you to find her if you can, find her body at the very least.” Gillispie paused a moment and looked down at his shoes. Cord realized Peter was trying not to cry.

“Take your time, Peter.”

Gillispie looked up at Cord and then out at the street. “Sorry. Still not quite believing it myself. And I also want for you to supervise the Mangrove Bayou police and make sure they do their jobs.”

“You want for me to supervise a police department. Make sure they do their jobs. For a private investigator, this is either a dream come true or my worst nightmare. Do they know about this?”

“Not yet. I'll notify them if you take the job. Clear the way for you.”

“Yeah, that will clear the way all right. Tell me more.”

Gillispie told Cord all that he, Gillispie, knew of the case. Cord frowned.
This has all the earmarks of a real stinker. Probably dead victim and interfering with a police investigation
, he thought to himself.

“My day rate is $1000 per day, and that buys you all twenty-four hours of me if necessary,” Cord said. “Any extraordinary expenses are extra. For a job like this I need one week in advance. I'll provide you with a weekly summary of what I've done and collect the next week's advance at that time. Any unused portion of an advance will be returned. We can do this by check, cash or online with a credit card.”

“I'll write a check. Your rates are fine. How long will this take? I'm not planning to finance your retirement.”

“No idea. I need to go down there and look around. Get a feel for the place and for the police there. How did you even hear about me?”

“Called the Miami and Tampa police departments and asked for referrals. Those are the two largest cities that are closest to Mangrove Bayou. Miami gave me two guys and when I called them they both turned me down flat on the phone. Tampa gave me you and I decided to stop off here on my way down and ask you in person. I'm staying in Naples, at the Ritz-Carlton, with my wife. She flew direct and will be there shortly.”

“How, in God's name, did you get a reservation at the Ritz-Carlton at this time of year?” Cord asked.

“I know people. And I'm wealthy.”

“That describes their entire clientele.”

“Whatever. Anyway, I rented a car here and I'll drive on down later today. Bad flight connections this late in the day, and I'll need a car anyway.”

“So I'm third-string?” Cord said. “I know why those other guys said no. Private investigators don't make friends by horning in on police investigations. And as for finding your daughter, you are asking me to come in after the horse race has started and to try to catch up. Is the local police force so bad as all that? Normally I would advise you to save your money and rely on them.”

“I want you. And I'm willing to pay you. I plan to announce a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for my daughter, alive, or ten thousand dollars for my daughter's body. In addition to your day rate, you get the reward if you find her.”

“Oh my. The cops will love you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rewards like that just mean their phone lines jam up with false sightings. If you do that, half the police force will then be busy chasing down bad leads and keeping control of the crowds. Those are cops who could otherwise have been looking for your daughter.”

“Didn't think of that.” Gillispie shook his head. “The offer stands. Maybe the cops won't like it but it will motivate the entire town to look.”

Cord thought about it. It didn't look like a winner of a case. On the other hand, there was no line of rich New Yorkers standing on his pier with fat checks in their hands.

“Here's what I'll do,” he said. “Give me your phone number. I'll drive down to Mangrove Bayou tomorrow morning and check things out. If I think I can do you some good I'll stop by your hotel and you can pay me then. If I think you would be wasting your money hiring me, I'll tell you so and you're not out anything.”

Gillispie was shaking his head. “I want to hire you now. Get down there and start looking. Or supervising. I want my own man on the scene. I realize you are at some serious disadvantages. Just do your best, that's all I ask of you.”

Cord thought about it. “All right,” he said. “One week in advance and I go down tomorrow morning. I'll check in with you daily, give you my impressions.”

“I can come around with you,” Gillispie said. He pulled out a checkbook and started writing. Cord had to admit that Peter Gillispie was his favorite sort of client.

“No. You can hang around the town. Nobody will stop you. But I don't want my client riding my coattails when I investigate. We'll talk by phone. Let me do things my way.”

“If you insist.” Gillispie handed Cord the check. Cord looked at it and put it into his wallet and tried to look like a man who stuffed seven-thousand-dollar checks into his wallet every day. Probably had a special compartment just for those. “Why not come down today and get started?” Gillispie said.

“Got things to wrap up here first.”
Like taking your check to the bank and getting it started on its way to Albany.
“I'll be in town, in Mangrove Bayou, at sunup. Don't worry. We private eyes never sleep.”

Chapter 19

Tuesday, December 24

Outside the police station the press contingent had more than doubled. The evening before, Angel Watson and Jeremiah Brown had made a half-dozen TV vans move out of the parking spaces for the boat trailers over by the boat ramp. They accommodated the press by completely blocking off 5th Street in front of the town hall, and Connecticut Avenue on the side, and turning those into a parking lot. There was not a vacant motel room to be had in Mangrove Bayou during the season and some of the reporters went home each night, a long drive. Some had pitched tents or slept in their vehicles. The more enterprising had bribed motel guests to get out and let the reporters have their rooms.

The vans now totally blocked off the side street and the street in front of the town hall, creating a small forest of extended microwave and satellite antennae. A small army of reporters and cameramen milled about all day. Angel Watson had printed out a neat sign reading
No Press Inside
and taped that to the front door, and the reporters had learned, after a few tries and some mumbling about the First Amendment and Florida's Sunshine Law, not to bother Troy and his staff.

Troy's officers had also set up, in the street, some folding tables from the upstairs meeting room and laid out doughnuts and coffee in the morning, and sandwiches and ice tea at noontime. There were three portable toilets on the other side of the street. Most of the press hung around what had become a party scene and didn't bother the officers or residents too much.

“They're like piranha,” June Dundee said as she locked the front door at five p.m. and prepared to leave by the back door.

“Saw one cameraman today filming a palm tree on Beach Drive,” Troy said. “He'd been told that Barbara Gillispie had once stood in front of it to have her photo taken. I think they're just getting bored.”

Troy was in the lobby and about to lock the connecting door to the town hall offices when Lester Groud showed up. Troy and the mayor stood in the station lobby and looked out the front windows at the reporters.

“I get the point of the toilets,” Groud said. “Mortimer Potem briefed me. But whose idea was it to feed them? And who's paying for that?”

“My idea. My credit card,” Troy said. “The longer they hang out here feeding their faces, the less they bother the townspeople.”

“No food out there right now.”

“No dinner for them. At night I want them to go home. More doughnuts and coffee coming tomorrow morning. But that's Christmas day so I didn't order too much. Don't expect many reporters.”

“Clever. Did I see Bert Frey delivering sandwiches at lunchtime?”

Troy nodded. “He can use the business.”

Groud laughed. “And those idiots don't know they're eating boa constrictor or possum or whatever came out of the back of Bert's truck?”

“Well, at Bert's that's all, technically, chicken.”

Groud laughed again. “I'll cover the food for you. It was a good idea. Next good idea you have that costs money, run it by me first.”

At six p.m., Troy heard the doorbell ring and went to shoo away whatever reporter was getting overzealous. Instead he saw a compact man in a business suit, complete with vest and tie. Six reporters immediately surrounded the man. Troy opened the front door to let the man in, pushed two overeager reporters back, locked the front door, and introduced himself.