Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay (17 page)

“Thanks for coming.”

“Will he be all right?”

She nodded. “It’s taken a lot out of him, but he’s stronger than he looks.”

I wanted to hold her in my arms and tell her how important she was to me. Tell her I understood what she’d gone through and how her family’s experiences had impacted her. Warm words of compassion darted erratically in and out of my brain, eluding my tongue and leaving me grasping for the right words.

“Serena, I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Listen, I have to drive him home and then get to work.”

“Sure. I’ll give you a call later.”

She hesitated for a moment and it seemed her face stiffened before she answered. “This is going to be a crazy week for me. Lots of meetings. I won’t have any time to talk until next week.”

I nodded dumbly, searching for confirmation I’d be given another chance to set things straight between us, but she had already closed the door.

Later, I sat in my car and watched Serena and her uncle drive away. The clear skies had clouded over since I arrived and a brisk northeast breeze riffled through the palm fronds overhead. I had the feeling this morning somehow marked the end of a chapter. With the telling of her uncle’s violent experience, a page had been turned in whatever story Serena and I were writing together. As she drove away, it felt like we’d written our last page and closed the book.

Until Serena’s eruption at the restaurant, I thought that despite our different backgrounds and races, our relationship was growing into something very special. Even as Howard recited his agonizing tale, I let myself believe she’d arranged this meeting because she really cared about me, and perhaps with this new knowledge we might form a stronger bond between us.

Now, as I turned the key in the ignition, I realized I’d been deceiving myself. Our relationship, like so many I’d had in recent years, was over. I’ve become quite good at reading body language, how to decipher the true meaning hiding beneath a person’s carefully parsed words. A look or an unconscious gesture gives them away, and my instincts told me her hidden message was simply,
goodbye, loser
. Howard’s story, I saw now, had been shared not to help me understand her better, but because it provided an excuse to end this reckless relationship with her white boyfriend.

At that precise moment, while my head crackled with self-destructive images and echoes of what might have been, my cell phone rang. I turned off the ignition and snatched the phone from the pocket between the seats where I’d dropped it.

“This is Quint,” I snapped, without looking at the Caller ID.

A deep rasping breath greeted me. He was back again.

“Listen—” I started to say.

“You listen. Is that too much to ask of the man who … No, you’re not a man. If you were a man you would have done the right thing long ago and blown your goddamn head off.” His voice sounded like a rusted nut being wrenched from its bolt. “You’re not a man, you’re just a thing. A murdering thing that killed my daughter.”

Filled with guilt and remorse, I had listened patiently to this sad man’s tortured rantings over the past year. His name was Samuel Parks, and before his daughter died he was a vice president with an insurance company in Jacksonville. Now, he only had her memory and his hatred to keep him alive. The phone calls, the bitterness and bile he spewed at me, hadn’t brought his daughter back nor brought healing to either of us.

“Listen to me, Mr. Parks, because this is the last time we’ll have one of these conversations. I’m sorry your daughter is dead. And I’m sorry I was the one driving the car that night. But get it through your sick head that it was an accident. The police said it was an accident.” I felt beads of sweat popping out on my forehead, and realized I was shouting into the phone.

“Calling me every day isn’t going to bring your daughter back. Wishing me dead might make you feel better, but it doesn’t solve your problems.”

“But, why—” He tried to cut in.

“Why?” I growled at him. “Don’t you think I ask myself that every day? Why was the light not working? Why couldn’t I have left five minutes later or earlier? Why did she have to be on the phone instead of paying attention to the traffic?”

“You have all kinds of excuses, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any excuses. Can’t you see it doesn’t help to beat on me? We can’t change what happened that night. I’ve listened to your demented ravings for the last time. It’s coming to a stop. Right now! Do you hear me?”

I paused waiting to see what he’d say, but he remained silent, probably stunned by my outburst. But I had more to say.

“Find yourself another therapist because I won’t listen to your miserable whining anymore. I’ve got my own fucking life to lead. Get your own.” I slammed the phone closed and threw it on the seat beside me.

I gasped as though I’d sprinted the final lap of a 400-meter race, my chest heaving, sweat pouring from my face. Before pulling away from Serena’s, I glanced into the rearview mirror, hardly recognizing the pair of haunted eyes staring back at me.

TWENTY-THREE

After leaving Tallabois searching for his car keys, I drove across town to Magnolia Avenue hoping to find Erin Marrano at home. The radio was tuned to a Jacksonville classic hits station, and Jimmy Buffet had just realized it was his damn fault he was wasting away in
Margaritaville
. I pulled into Erin’s driveway as her silver Lexus came to a stop. Her car door opened and she emerged, turning quickly as she heard my car behind her.

“Mr. Mitchell, I was hoping to hear from you today.” There was that smile again, adding heat to the 90-degree day.

Inside her home, we sat in the same pair of Queen Anne chairs. Only this time I faced the bookcases. Three slim volumes were stacked at one end of a middle shelf, and I immediately recognized the distinctive teal book jacket of Henderson’s
A Flash of Silence
. A number of framed photographs occupied the shelves. Erin and Bill Marrano in various poses and locales, holding hands, smiling at the camera. Obviously in happier times.

We were nearly knee-to-knee in the two arm chairs, and I caught the musky scent of her perfume. Erin’s makeup had been carefully applied, and although the red outline of the hand had faded, there were still traces of the purple bruise on her other cheekbone.

“How’s your shoulder?” I asked.

She rotated it slowly, making a tiny pout with her lips. “Still hurts a little, but you didn’t come here to talk about my ailments, I’m sure.”

“No, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Her eyes grew wide. “What?”

“Dr. Poe attempted suicide this morning. He tried to hang himself.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“Your brother-in-law said the doctors checked him out and he’s going to be fine,” I said, trying to offset the bad news.

“Have you seen him yet?”

“No visitors until seven, but I plan on going by tonight.”

The tip of her tongue slipped hesitantly from between her lips, circling them and leaving a trail of shimmering dampness. I stared, caught in the moment like a rabbit in the glare of an automobile’s headlights. She extended a hand, grabbing my fingers tightly and I felt an electric shock course along my arm.

“Tell him something for me, please.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“Tell him I believe in him. Don’t let him give up because I know he’ll be found innocent.” She said it with such conviction I was almost convinced she could see the future.

“I’m sure it will mean a lot to him, but the evidence is stacking up.”

She pulled her hand away. “He’s being framed.” Again, she seemed so sure.

“We agree on that. But so far all the evidence points to Jeffrey.”

“And you haven’t found any other possible suspects?”

“There’s a man named Denny Grimes who got fired from his job with the city. Some say he blamed your husband.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet, but I’m going to swing by his place today or tomorrow.”

She didn’t seem too impressed, and asked me, “Anything else?”

“There’ve been a few interesting theories thrown out, but nothing substantial.” I searched for something positive to report. “Mr. Henderson seems to think that Kurtis Laurance might have something to do with it.”

Erin shook her head and a strand of hair fell over one eye. She brushed it back. “I don’t see how that’s possible. Kurtis and Bill were so close.”

“Did your husband ever indicate he had second thoughts about Matanzas Bay? Maybe changed his mind?”

“You’d have to know my husband to understand just how stubborn he could be. Once he made up his mind that was the end of it. Where did you hear that?”

“Henderson. He said your husband had called a special meeting to put the project on hold. Suggested Laurance had too much on the line, both politically and financially, so he might have had something to do with your husband’s death. Of course, Laurance denied the whole thing.”

She didn’t respond to Henderson’s claim, instead she said, “So, you were able to see Kurtis.”

“Thanks to your call. The man has a lot of balls in the air, but he took a few minutes to set me straight on a few things.”

“Oh, like what?”

I debated whether to share with her Laurance’s implication that Henderson might somehow be involved or what I learned about the old man’s past. At this point, I couldn’t see how the death of his wife forty years ago had any bearing on Marrano’s murder. But I didn’t have anything else to go on so I said, “Laurance seems to share your husband’s dislike of Mr. Henderson.”

“I’m not surprised. Clayton has made his feelings known about the project, and publicly supported Jeffrey on several occasions.”

“That’s what I thought, but I did a little research on our poet laureate and he seems to have a few skeletons in his closet.”

Her face tightened and the blue eyes skewered me. “I don’t see what that has to do with my husband’s murder.”

“Probably nothing. But let’s say Henderson was trying to hide something, to protect his legacy—”

“His legacy doesn’t need protecting,” she snapped.

“And if your husband learned about these … uhmm … improprieties, and threatened to reveal them, then we have a motive for murder.” I was making this up as I went along, but it sounded feasible.

Her face colored, and an angry storm front settled over her. “That doesn’t make any more sense than Jeffrey killing Bill because of the Matanzas Bay project. I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“You’re probably right, but I want you to know I’m following up on every lead. We’ll see where it takes me.”

The storm clouds passed as quickly as they appeared. Her face softened, and a hint of a smile formed on her lovely lips. “I’m sorry if I sounded ungrateful. Jeffrey spoke very highly of your abilities. I have complete faith you’ll find out what really happened.” She placed her hand on mine again, but only for a moment.

Erin looked at her watch. “I’m sorry, but we’re having Bill’s visitation tonight and I have a few things to take care of before I go.”

The scent of her fragrance drifted over her shoulder as she walked toward the front door, distracting me for a moment. When she turned toward me, her breasts brushed across my chest. I stepped back awkwardly. Erin smiled and held out her hand. I gripped it, losing myself in her dazzling eyes and warm smile for a moment.

“Please don’t forget to give my regards to Dr. Poe when you see him tonight.”

“You can count on it.”

I returned to my car with the memory of those warm fingers still tingling against my skin.

TWENTY-FOUR

I still had some time before visiting hours began at the jail. I considered looking up Denny Grimes, but my grumbling stomach directed me back into town. Driving into the old city, I turned onto Cathedral Place just as a car pulled out of a space by the plaza. I slipped into the vacated spot, locked up, and walked across the street to A1A Ale Works.

Sipping on one of their homemade brews, I waited for my burger, and dissected my earlier conversation with Erin Marrano. Something didn’t add up. Erin believed Poe was innocent, but she scoffed at any connection with Laurance or Henderson. In fact, she became defensive when I hinted that Henderson might be trying to hide something.

Recalling the slanderous old article about Henderson, I couldn’t help but wonder if it had any bearing on my case. It seemed like ancient history—decades ago, hundreds of miles away in Oxford, Mississippi. That’s when I thought of Jack Fuller. Fuller was one of my instructors at the DEA Training Center in Quantico, Virginia. I worked out of the Jacksonville District Office for three years before I decided to strike off on my own and earned my PI license.

I liked Fuller from the first time I met him. He had huge, hulking shoulders and looked like he could run a mile with a mule on his back. From his unfortunate overbite and country boy twang many were tempted to write him off as just another hayseed from the sticks. But that would be a mistake. Fuller had a first rate brain, and more than once I saw him spear a wise guy trainee to the wall with a well-aimed tirade.

Fuller now served as Deputy Director of the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation’s Special Ops Unit. I checked my watch. 6:05 here but an hour earlier in Mississippi. I stepped out onto the balcony, pulled out my cell phone and called him.

“Special Ops. This is Fuller,” he drawled.

“Hey, you old mule-skinner, how they hanging? This is Quint Mitchell.”

“Damn, boy, I didn’t know you were still alive. Figured one of those cheatin’ husbands you snoop after would have carved you up by now.”

“So far I’ve managed to keep my skin intact. How about you? Still chasing after those hog rustlers?” Once we finished the warm-up act, I got down to business.

“I’m working a murder case, Jack, and I’ve turned up a possible connection to someone who once lived in Mississippi. I thought you might know something about it or check into it for me.”

“Who’s that?”

“Clayton Ford Henderson. His wife drowned in the family pool about thirty-five or forty years ago. Do you remember?”