Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (13 page)

“You’re an important public figure, Mr. Laurance, so it makes sense not to take any chances.” I hoped I projected the proper degree of deference. “But rest assured you’re safe with me.” Laurance grinned broadly, apparently appreciating my little joke, but Tallabois was unmoved.

“I’m sure you’re right. Lem, why don’t you take a break and get yourself a cup of coffee while Mr. Mitchell and I chat for a few minutes?”

Tallabois squinted at me, the scarred right eye closing completely at the corner, adding to his eel-like look. “Maybe I should check him out to make sure he’s not packing.” He moved toward me holding out a hand to pat me down.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Laurance said. “Mr. Mitchell looks harmless enough, but I’ll give you a call if I need your help.”

The muscles along Tallabois’ jaw line bunched, and he shot me his creepy stare as a warning before leaving the office.

“Now, what’s this all about, Mr. Mitchell? You said something about the Matanzas Bay project.”

“First of all, let me thank you for seeing me on such short notice. As Mrs. Marrano probably told you, she’s hired me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her husband’s murder.”

Lines appeared on Laurance’s forehead as his smooth face took on an expression of deep sadness. “What a horrible tragedy for Mrs. Marrano and the rest of us. Aside from the loss of a wonderful friend, I hate to see something like this happen in my hometown.”

Laurance was either a very good actor or sincerely moved by Marrano’s death. Part of his statement surprised me, though. “Your hometown? I thought you were from south Florida.”

“I was born and lived here until I was thirteen when my family moved to south Florida. After high school I attended the University of Miami and stayed in the area while learning the real estate development business.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, adjusting the crease in his pants before continuing.

“After working with a couple of companies, I started my own and took advantage of the explosive growth throughout south Florida. But my heart’s always been here in St. Johns County. That’s why I named my company the St. Johns Group. Later I transferred my main office up here.”

“You still have an office in Miami?” Like most politicians, he enjoyed talking about himself, and I wanted him to keep talking.

“Of course, and one in Atlanta and another in Charlotte. I try to spend as much time here as my schedule allows.” Laurance looked at his watch again to let me know I needed to get back on track.

“You said Mr. Marrano was a good friend of yours.”

“Bill and I developed a close working relationship. I’m happy to say it grew into a deep friendship.” He reached across the table and touched me on the arm with a long, delicate finger. “Everyone who knew Bill felt the same way about him. He exuded charisma and had a sincere love for his community. That’s why the Matanzas Bay project was so important to him.”

“And yet, someone obviously disliked him enough to kill him,” I said.

A subtle change flitted across Laurance’s features and for a moment the compassion and concern he displayed were gone, replaced by what might have been suspicion and an almost animal-like sense of alertness. The look of concern returned so quickly I thought I might have imagined the change.

“I still have a hard time believing it happened,” Laurance said. “Everyone knew Dr. Poe opposed our project, but no one would have guessed he was capable of such a thing.”

“Jeffrey Poe may have been arrested for William Marrano’s murder, but he hasn’t been convicted.”

“Of course not, but I hear the police have a very good case against him.”

“Mrs. Marrano hired me because she doesn’t believe Dr. Poe killed her husband.”

“I’m a staunch supporter of our jurisprudence system, Mr. Mitchell. I’m sure the courts will sort everything out, but Mrs. Marrano acted under the strain of her husband’s murder before hearing all the evidence. When she does, she’ll realize she doesn’t require your services any longer.”

He held my eyes for a second before looking at his watch again. “I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“You obviously think Dr. Poe—”

“It doesn’t make any difference what I think.” He flicked a hand through the air impatiently. “None of this has anything to do with our project. We’ve been charged with converting an old waste dump into a jewel for St. Augustine’s crown. Everyone will be proud of Matanzas Bay when we’re finished.”

“Jeffrey Poe didn’t consider it to be a jewel.”

He snorted. “Poe was obsessive about this development. He was sadly mistaken if he thought he could stop the project by killing Marrano.”

“Maybe the point of killing Marrano was not to halt construction, but to insure it went on,” I said.

“What the hell does that mean?” Laurance blurted out the words before catching himself, but not before a flush of color reddened his cheeks.

I noted his public mask slipping away, if only momentarily.

“Bill Marrano had been in favor of this project since day one. I’m only sorry he won’t be here to see it to completion.” Laurance the politician was back in control, smiling and nodding sympathetically.

I had my note pad on the table and flipped through a few pages as though looking for something. Running a finger down one of the pages, I said, “Its come to my attention Mr. Marrano may have had a change of heart. He called a special meeting for Thursday night and some people thought he planned to reverse his position and either delay or halt the project.”

Something flashed across his face, and I thought I may have hit a nerve.

“There’s absolutely no truth to that,” Laurance said, his voice even and confiding. “Marrano knew this project would benefit St. Augustine. He couldn’t wait to get it underway. The special meeting wasn’t called because he’d changed his mind.”

“How much would you stand to lose if this project got shelved?”

All pretenses of affability were suddenly dropped, and Laurance glared at me with narrowed eyes and open hostility.

“Don’t think I don’t know where you’re getting this crap. It’s Henderson. The old has-been likes to stick his rummy nose in everybody’s business. He plays the part of the village shaman and expects everyone to go along with his game.”

I didn’t reply.

“Henderson and Poe both tried to stop Matanzas Bay. At least Poe was man enough to go public and do it openly. Let me give you some free advice, Mitchell. Take another look at your poet friend. I mean a good look. He’s not the noble creature everyone seems to think he is.”

“Are you saying Henderson was involved in Mr. Marrano’s death?”

“You’re obviously hard of hearing. I said that he’s not the noble creature everyone seems to think he is. If that means he also has blood on his hands …” He let the sentence trail off, holding up both hands as though weighing the implications of his statement. “Maybe the police will get around to questioning him, but since you’re a detective, why don’t you do your job.”

He glared at me a moment before standing. I guessed our meeting was over.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get back to work now.” Taking a few steps toward the office door, he called, “Lem.”

Tallabois entered immediately, and I wondered if he had his ear pressed against the door, waiting to be summoned. The security chief’s right hand hung in the air mid-way toward his holster as though expecting trouble, his moray eel eyes searching the room.

“Mr. Mitchell is finished here. Will you be kind enough to see him out?”

Laurance returned to his desk, and Tallabois gripped my upper arm, pushing me toward the door. I spun around, yanking my arm from his grip and stared into the ruined face of Lemuel Tallabois.

“Thanks, but I think I can find my own way out.”

Tallabois sneered and whispered hoarsely, “Watch your ass, pretty boy. I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

SEVENTEEN

Eighteen minutes later I turned off Ponce de Leon Boulevard into the parking lot of the downtown branch of the St. Johns County Public Library. During the ride, I reviewed my interview with Laurance, searching for any clues or discrepancies in his story. He had raised a lot of new questions, but now my head returned to the county jail and Jeffrey Poe.

Wannaker’s news about Eleanor Lawson remembering the Saturday night raccoon incident had pulled Poe out of his gloomy mood. I had my doubts the old woman’s testimony would offset the grisly evidence the police found in Poe’s storage shed. I wondered what the State Attorney had told Wannaker this morning, which was why I asked the elderly Asian woman behind the reference desk for a St. Augustine telephone directory.

Wannaker struck me as one of those attorneys who not only had a full page ad in the yellow pages, but probably advertised on TV as much as the beer companies. I flipped to the section marked Attorneys and wasn’t disappointed to find a full page ad with the bold headline,
Your Hometown Criminal Defense Attorney
and Wannaker’s stern visage below it. I noted the phone number and address in my notebook and started to leave when the book stacks caught my eye.

Among compilations of the works of James Dickey, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Sylvia Plath, and Nikki Giovanni, I found four volumes by Clayton Ford Henderson—
Trembling Vision, A Flash of Silence, Waiting for the Other Shoe
, and
Dusty Autumn Daydreams
.

A friend who wrote poetry when she wasn’t earning a living as a freelance journalist, once told me very few poets made any money selling books of poetry. Henderson must be the rare exception since he purchased a residence in St. Augustine’s historic district and remodeled it top to bottom.

I pulled
A Flash of Silence
from the shelf and studied the slim book wrapped in a muted teal dust jacket. On the back cover, Henderson stared out at me in a three-quarter page black and white photograph probably taken twenty-five years ago. I thumbed through the pages until I came across the title poem and read the first stanza.

A Flash of Silence

Last night’s Bordeaux was a teasing

pinch on our tongues,

candles a veil of light that dulled

truth we knew would come.

In the hearth fire rose, a wall

of flames that kindled longing.

Hope drifted away like ashes.

I left Mr. Henderson and his ashes on the shelf and returned to my car, arriving at Wannaker’s office in time to see him striding toward a black Cadillac Escalade, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie askew. He carried a folded newspaper instead of his expensive brief case.

“Mr. Wannaker, may I speak to you for a minute?”

He gave me a baleful look. “You’re like a bad penny, Mitchell. If you weren’t Jeffrey’s friend, I’d tell you to make an appointment like everyone else, but …” He shrugged and I interpreted it to mean he’d break his rigid policies and condescend to a minute’s unbilled conversation.

“What’s happening with Poe’s case? Have you spoken to the State Attorney yet?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Not good news. I was just going down the street for a bite to eat. Come along and I’ll fill you in.”

During the five minutes it took to reach the sandwich shop, Wannaker remained remarkably quiet. He admitted he’d spoken with the State Attorney, but said he’d tell me more after he had something in his stomach.

Only three bites into my cheese steak sandwich, I watched Wannaker swallow the last of his turkey and ham combo. The man ate faster than anyone I’d ever seen, inhaling great gulps of food seemingly without chewing. Finally, he sucked a long swallow of Dr. Pepper through his straw, wiped his mouth and looked at me.

“Up front, I have to tell you things look rather bleak for Dr. Poe,” Wannaker said.

“What about Mrs. Lawson’s deposition?”

“I spoke to the State Attorney first thing this morning. He was polite, and said he’d have the SAPD check into Mrs. Lawson’s story and get back to me.”

“Did he?”

“Oh yes. In fact, he called me back ninety minutes later. Apparently, Chief Conover sent one of his detectives out almost immediately.” Wannaker picked up his drink and loudly slurped the last few drops.

“And?”

“It didn’t take them long to determine Poe didn’t have much of an alibi. By the time the detective finished talking with Mrs. Lawson, she was so confused she couldn’t be sure when she saw Poe. Not even what day it was.”

I was afraid of that. Even the best witnesses are known to make mistakes, and Mrs. Lawson was a seventy-something woman who admitted her memory wasn’t what it once had been. Not exactly a scenario designed to strike fear in the heart of the prosecuting attorney.

“Did you verify this with the witness?”

“Of course I did.” He looked at me as though I’d hurt his feelings, picked up a few slivers of turkey remaining on his wrapper and chewed them slowly. “She apologized several times, saying how bad she felt for Poe, and that she’d let him down. At her age, she has trouble keeping track of things and it could have been any day last week. But she did remember seeing him and would be happy to testify if it would help.”

I nodded, knowing Mrs. Lawson would never see the witness stand on this case. “What about Jeffrey? Did you tell him?”

“I drove out to the lock-up right away. I thought I should be the one to tell him the bad news.”

“How did he take it?”

“Jeffrey said you were his friend. How well do you really know him?”

“I’ve known him from before his wife died. We’re pretty tight.”

“Then you won’t be surprised when I tell you he fell apart.”

“What does that mean?”

“He went ballistic, cursing the police, Mrs. Lawson. When I tried to calm him, tell him it was only a temporary setback, he turned on me. Finally, he shut down.”

“This has been an emotional roller coaster for him,” I said. “First you tell him Mrs. Lawson was his ticket out of jail. Then he hears this. I’m sure it hit him hard.”

“In my business I deal with a lot of emotional types, but this was something else.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“It was like he’d given up all hope. I don’t know, he collapsed into himself. Checked out. Gave up.” Wannaker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not a psychiatrist, Mr. Mitchell, but I’d say my client, your friend, is a manic depressive who might be very close to a nervous breakdown.”