Ron Base - Sanibel Sunset Detective 01 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective (17 page)

“I’m part of a probe into the activities of a man named Brand Traven.”

Now that really did surprise him.

“You think Marcello and these murders are somehow connected to Brand Traven?”

“That’s what Agent Lazenby and myself are here to find out.”

“What about the woman I found on Barrington Court?”

“What about her?”

“Has she been identified? If I’m out there knocking people off, I’d at least like to know who they are.”

She hesitated before she said, “The woman’s name is Dara Rait. But I believe you already know that.”

“I know what I told the police, that she bought a bike for Marcello.”

“Supposedly, she’s an artist. Runs a little shop in Fort Myers Beach. But that’s probably a front.”

“A front for what?”

“Dara was a former sex trade worker who supplied young women from South America and Mexico to various escort services along the West Coast. We think that’s how she became involved with Reno O’Hara.”

“Who stands a lot better chance of being Dara’s killer than I do.”

“As we say, the investigation is still ongoing.”

“What was she doing at that house?”

“Dara rented the place about a month ago. We’re not sure why. Maybe to house the women she brought up from the South. She never lived there.”

“Only died.”

“That’s right,” Savannah said.

“Like I said, Dara bought a bike for Marcello,” Tree said. “I tracked her to an address at the Bon Air Mobile Park in Fort Myers Beach. I thought she might be Marcello’s mother.”

“But she isn’t.”

“Marcello says she isn’t.”

“The police think they were using the Bon Air to house women. How did you end up at the house on Barrington? And don’t tell me you thought it was up for sale.”

“I was looking for Mickey Crowley.”

“A call girl from Naples.”

“I thought she was a waitress.”

“Briefly. She’s quit her job and disappeared. Who wants to know the whereabouts of Mickey Crowley?”

“My client wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Your client does, huh? You know, Tree, I’ve ended up telling you a quite a bit this evening. You haven’t told me much of anything.”

She got to her feet. The FBI letters on her T-shirt looked ten-feet tall. “Think over what we’ve talked about,” she said in that tight, clipped voice she probably used arresting drug lords. “Give me a call if you think of anything or Marcello shows up.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

He stood. She reached out her hand to him. “Good to see you, Tree.”

For one wild moment, he thought they would kiss. The moment passed. He shook her hand.

He went to the door and opened it. She called after him. “Tree.”

He turned.

“Did you tell your wife?”

He looked back at her.

“About us. Did you tell your wife about the two of us?”

“What about you, Savannah? Did you ever marry?”

“I never made that mistake, Tree. You were a good role model for me.”

Cheshire cat grin. Savannah had the moment.

As she always did.

23

S
he was the only woman who ever wrote him a love letter. Handwritten, composed after a spat. He couldn’t remember the details of the fight. But he always remembered the letter. Four wives and none of them ever wrote him a love letter, not even Freddie. But Savannah had. What had he done with it, anyway? Must be around some place.

There was only one problem with the love letter.

Its author did not love him.

They had met on a local current affairs television show. Student lawyers confronting seasoned law enforcement officers and journalists about what they did and how they did it.

Savannah was bright, intelligent, charming, extremely attractive. He was between marriages, but good grief, he told himself, she was twenty years younger. He made himself forget any stupid ideas about getting involved with her. Not that she’d be interested in a million years.

A couple of weeks later, she called. She had some follow-up questions in connection with a project she was doing for one of her courses. Could they get together for a drink?

He could and they did. How had they ended up living together? Crazy. She was too young and just beginning. He was too old and even then suspecting that journalism, in one way or another, was coming to an end.

She had broken up with her boyfriend, a crazed character who threatened her life and might have been a local hoodlum. Or maybe not, depending on her mood. The point was, she needed a place to stay. That’s all it was, right? He wasn’ t going to sleep with her. And then he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Or maybe they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

He deluded himself into thinking they were a couple—until he found out she was seeing a local news anchor. Rex tipped him off. He didn’t want to see Tree hurt. He had met Savannah, thought her deceitful and manipulative, not a woman to trust. Rex pointed out that the anchor guy had perfect hair. Tree couldn’t compete with perfect hair—Rex’s conclusion. He was probably right.

Tree thought he knew what was in store dating someone so much younger, but he wasn’t prepared for the emotional toll. He didn’t care, but he did. One final encounter: the two of them tearing at each other extracting some kind of sexual revenge. He never saw her again after that. She was gone without a trace. He didn’t even have a photograph. It was as though she never existed.

Except she did.

Tree had long since gotten over her. Hadn’t he? Maybe it was the damned love letter. What was in it, anyway? He would have to find it and reread its contents. No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have to do anything like that. He reminded himself again: she had not loved him; she still did not love him.

Instead of worrying about an old flame seducing him—a notion that now seemed particularly ludicrous—he should concern himself with a threatening federal agent who strongly suggested he was a prime suspect in two murder cases.

“Hey!”

He turned to see Agent Shawn Lazenby walking-running toward him, fists clenched. He came to a threatening stop inches away from Tree. He was in shirtsleeves, his spiky hair disheveled, face drawn and tense.

“What’s up?” he demanded. His eyes spun in their sockets.

“Just getting into my car,” Tree managed to say. “Going home.”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?” Tree said. “What are you talking about?”

In response, Shawn slammed him back against the Beetle. “Don’t screw with me. Okay?
Okay
?”

Part of Tree’s brain insisted this had to be a joke. Yet the force of Shawn’s presence, the overpowering physical sense of him, screamed it wasn’t.

“What’s wrong?” Tree tried to keep his voice calm, reasonable.

“What’s
wrong
?” The notion of right and wrong appeared to further agitate Shawn. “I tell you what’s
wrong
, as opposed to what’s
right
. You and Savannah, that’s what’s
wrong
. That’s what’s so goddamn
wrong
!”

“I wasn’t—”

“I know about you, okay? I know where you’re coming from, okay? You can’t fool me, mister. You can’t do it. So don’t even try.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” Tree said.

The agent gave him another hard shove. “Don’t let me catch you around her again, man. I mean it. Otherwise, it’s a sea of trouble. I’m not fooling. Okay? A sea of trouble.”

He turned, and as suddenly as he had arrived, Shawn departed, streaking across the parking lot, leaving Tree slumped against his car.

____

Driving back along Captiva Road, he began to calm down, get his mind off Shawn Lazenby’s intimidation—what was that all about? A lovesick cop?— and his unsatisfactory performance with Savannah; intimidation of another kind. He focused instead on what he had learned: Reno O’Hara was part of an ongoing FBI investigation into the affairs of Brand Traven.

Savannah had refused to say how Reno was involved with Traven but the pivotal figure appeared to be twelve-year-old Marcello. The police, the intruders at his house and now the FBI, everyone wanted Marcello. What’s more, everyone thought Tree knew where he was. Thus everyone threatened him. He should have been scared, he supposed. Instead, he was rather pleased at being invested with a craftiness and deceit that he doubted he possessed. He had no more idea where Marcello was than anyone else.

His cell phone rang. He slowed to fish it out of his pocket, thinking it was Freddie. However, it wasn’t Freddie.

“I need to see you, Mr. Callister,” Elizabeth Traven said.

24

A
n American eagle, said to be a replica of the one in the Oval Office, glared down at Tree from atop the sitting room fireplace inside the Sanctuary Golf Club, as though it feared Tree might desire to become a member and therefore must be torn apart.

Elizabeth Traven, crisp and efficient in a canary-yellow summer dress, was seated in the dining room by one of the picture windows. She did not look any happier to see Tree than the eagle as he seated himself across from her.

“Every time I look at a newspaper, Mr. Callister, there you are on the front page.”

“Someone broke into my house,” he said.

“So I understand. Are you and your wife all right?”

“A little shaken up, that’s all.”

“Any idea who was responsible?”

“Let’s say I have my suspicions.” He decided not to say that he thought one of those responsible was Mickey Crowley. He would save that for later.

Elizabeth looked distracted. “This club is part of the Ding Darling Wildlife Refuge. You probably don’t know that special water is required to irrigate the greens.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tree said.

“You play golf, Mr. Callister?”

“I don’t play anything.”

“No favorite sport?”

“If I didn’t know better, I might suspect you’re trying to change the subject,” Tree said.

“Do you think so?” Elizabeth said.

“The FBI has been questioning me.”

That triggered the surprise he had been looking for. “What about?”

“They seem to think your husband might be connected to all this.”

“All what, Mr. Callister?”

“Mickey Crowley. Her husband Dwayne. A man named Reno O’Hara, his son Marcello.”

A smiling boy of a waiter arrived and made a production of unfurling a white linen napkin for Tree. He asked the waiter for a Diet Coke. Elizabeth Traven arched her eyebrows.

“I thought detectives liked a drink,” she said.

“I’m the new breed,” he said.

The waiter returned with Tree’s Diet Coke and menus. The special was grouper. “Life in Florida,” Elizabeth said with a sigh. “The sun shines bright, the private detectives arrive with surprises, and the catch of the day is always grouper.”

She sent the waiter for another drink before addressing Tree. “So. Let’s have it. Did you tell them anything about me?”

“No, I didn’t, although perhaps I should have.”

“Why should you?”

“Because I could get into a lot of trouble withholding information from federal agents.”

He told her about following Michelle Crowley to Naples, her rendezvous with Reno O’Hara, and their cozy dinner with Jorge. When he finished, those opaque, fathomless eyes appraised him coolly. “You’ve been busy,” she said.

“You don’t seem at all dismayed that your butler was having dinner with the woman you’re supposed to be so worried about.”

“I got past dismay a long time ago.”

The waiter came back with a second martini. He could hardly keep his eyes off Elizabeth. She appeared oblivious. A rich woman on a budget, she ordered the house salad.

He asked the waiter for a recommendation. “You can’t go wrong with the grouper sandwich.”

Tree ordered the grouper. The waiter scurried away casting a last, longing glance at Elizabeth.

“I spoke to my husband at some length last night,” she said.

“Yes?”

“We both agreed that for whatever reason, you’re attracting too much attention.”

“I’m attracting too much attention?”

“This situation with the FBI merely confirms what I’ve suspected, that you’re simply too high profile for us, Mr. Callister.”

Tree looked at her, dumbfounded.

“We’ve decided to terminate your employment.”

Tree probably should have said something, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of what it might be.

The grouper sandwich arrived, arranged around a foothill of coleslaw. The waiter had eyes only for Elizabeth as he presented her salad. Somewhat wistfully he asked if he could bring anything else. She couldn’t be bothered answering. The waiter looked crestfallen. A heartbreaker, Elizabeth Traven.