A Quarter for a Kiss (33 page)

My face turned red as I thought about it. Had I risked my life, risked the boat, just to follow Jodi and her friends around as they went shopping? If this was all it turned out to be, I swore I would turn in my PI license first thing Monday morning.

Oh, Eli
, I thought to myself.
What I don’t do out of love for you!

When the three of them were well past me, I set out on foot, grateful that Zach was tall enough so that I could let them get far ahead and still keep an eye on them. They were an easy tail as they went leisurely from store to store. At the end of one street, they turned, however, and at that point things became a little tougher. That street wasn’t very crowded, and if I made any mistakes, I knew I would be spotted.

I hung back, watching. They went all the way to the end of that block, and then suddenly they split up. With a wave, Zach kept going forward and the two girls turned right.

I let him walk on, wondering if he would even remember me if he accidentally saw me. He hadn’t been very friendly the night we met, and from what I recalled, they had all been pretty far into the margaritas. Taking the chance he wouldn’t know who I was, I set off after him, leaving about a block between us.

Up ahead, I saw him stop and then go into a bar. Wondering if I should be pleased or disappointed, I hesitated at the cross street, knowing Jodi and Fawn might still be close enough to spot me if they happened to turn and look back.

I glanced to the right, and sure enough they were only about halfway up the block, standing at what looked like the door of a private home. I watched as Jodi rapped on the door.

I stepped back, looking for a place to duck if they came this way. There was a jewelry store three doors down, and I knew I could go in there if necessary. As I waited to see what would happen with the two of them, the street sign happened to catch my eye.

Ketch Alley.

Heart racing, I had to wonder if the door they were knocking on was 3344 Ketch Alley—the very same address Dianne had gone to when Eli was tailing her!

I chanced another peek. Jodi and Fawn were gone.

I took a few steps up the road, checking out the numbers on the doors. Sure enough, it was the three thousand block of Ketch Alley. I had no doubt it was the same address.

I wasn’t sure what to think or do next. A part of me was literally sick to my stomach, terrified Jodi wasn’t at all the person I had thought her to be. I was usually such a good judge of character, but this time I had blown it. The police back in Cocoa Beach suspected “one of Stella’s children” of Eli’s shooting.

Could Jodi be the one?

There were actions I could take. I walked back down the hill toward the main street and then hiked quickly to the corner where the cabbie was supposed to meet me. Sure enough, he was there, and when he spotted me in the crowd he gave me a big smile and a wave.

“Over here, missy!”

I got into the back of the cab and had him bring me to Mike’s Marina. Once there, I asked him to wait, and then I ran onboard and dug into the suitcase full of Eli’s equipment. One item was an official-looking—but completely fake—FBI badge. I changed into slacks and a shirt, tucked the badge in my pocket, then removed from Eli’s file one of the current photos of Dianne. I didn’t think about the laws I might be breaking by impersonating a federal agent. I didn’t want to know.

Back outside, I had the cabdriver take me back to Ketch Alley going the other direction so we could pass the bar where Zach was. As we drove slowly past, I spotted him still there, now flanked on either side by Jodi and Fawn.

“Turn here,” I said, wondering if I dared do this so soon. I knew I should wait until they were completely gone from the area before I followed this lead, but I didn’t have the heart to wait. I felt sick inside.

I paid the cabbie a big bonus yet again, and this time I resisted his offer to meet me somewhere later for another ride.

“Thank you, though,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Once he had driven away, I straightened my shirt, stepped up to the door at 3344 Ketch Alley, and knocked. I had no idea who might greet me on the other side, but I knew it was a necessary step.

After a moment, I heard some noise inside, and then the door swung open.

“Can I help you?” a man asked.

He looked to be in his twenties, with frizzy blond hair and a few days’ growth of beard. I didn’t recognize him.

“Hey,” I said with a smile, trying to appear relaxed. “I’m looking for Jodi. Is she still here?”

He didn’t respond at first but merely looked at me, eyes squinting. “Yeah, right,” he said finally. “What are you—a cop? Get a warrant or get out of my face.”

He started to shut the door. Thinking fast, I blocked it with my foot and then reached into my pocket and pulled out my fake badge.

“FBI,” I said in a much stronger voice, flashing the badge. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

Thirty-Five

He hesitated for a moment, a bemused expression on his face.

“Sure,” he said finally, stepping back and holding out one arm. “Come on in.”

Already, I was kicking myself for the stupid FBI ruse. It could have been so much simpler than that. All I had needed to do was tell the truth: I was a private investigator and I wanted to know what the two young women had been doing here, not to mention what his association was with Dianne Streep. I was just so flustered by the Jodi connection that I hadn’t been thinking clearly.

He motioned down a narrow hall, so I went first, emerging into a living room that looked more like the local copy store than someone’s home. A large desk dominated the place, with a row of printers and copiers along the wall, and mountains of paper and boxes in every available space. He pointed to any empty metal folding chair, so I sat. He went around the desk and took his office chair.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

My mind raced.

“I need some information,” I told him, “about the two young women who were just in here. Can you tell me what business they had with you?”

He stared at me for a moment and then began rummaging through a desk drawer. He pulled something out and tossed it toward me. It landed in my lap.

I picked up the item to see a vinyl case. When I opened it, I recognized it as a duplicate of the FBI badge I had flashed at the door.

Click
.

I looked up to see him pointing a gun straight at me.

“Don’t try to kid a kidder,” he said. “I got a whole box of those things in the back. Who are you and what do you really want?”

I swallowed hard, wishing I had told someone where I was going and what I would be doing here.

“Sorry,” I said evenly, staring at the barrel of the gun. “You’re right, I’m not FBI. My name is Callie Webber, and I’m a private investigator. I’m here investigating the shooting of a man named Eli Gold.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He came here on a case of his own several months ago,” I said. “He followed a woman to your door. Today, I was tracking someone related to the case, and they also came to your door. Somehow, that tells me you might be able to assist me with my investigation.”

“Why should I?”

I blinked, meeting his eyes. They were cold and hard and empty, and I had no doubt he was perfectly capable of pulling the trigger.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because you’re the kind of guy who likes to help people out.”

He seemed to consider his options. A few moments later, he relaxed his wrist so that the gun pointed up toward the ceiling.

“Prove it,” he said, “and I might help you.”

“Prove what?”

“That you’re a legitimate investigator.”

I dug out a business card and slid it across the desk.

“My license numbers are on the back,” I said. “You can verify them through any of those state licensing bureaus.”

Much to my surprise, he did just that. While continuing to hold the gun with one hand, he used the other to type, pulling up each state on my list that offered online verification and entering my numbers there.

“All right,” he said finally. “You’re clear for Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina. Guess that’s good enough. Ask me what you wanna know, and then I’ll tell you what the answers will cost you.”

“Fair enough. What were those two girls doing here?”

He chewed on his upper lip.

“Fifty bucks. And this is completely off the record.”

I reached into my wallet and counted out two twenties and a ten. I set the bills on his desk and he used his free hand to pick them up and fold them into his shirt pocket.

“Getting ID for the younger one,” he said. “She’s twenty-one, you know, but she left her license at home in the States, so they needed me to print her a new one to use while she’s here on vacation.”

I nodded.

“Is that your business?” I asked. “Printing fake IDs for underage kids so they can get into bars?”

“My business is my business,” he said sharply. “Are we done here?”

“Not quite. I need to reach into my bag.”

“Go ahead,” he said.

I moved slowly, not wanting him to think I might be pulling out a gun myself. My fingers touched the photo of Dianne, and I pulled it out and handed it to him.

“What was your business with her?” I asked.

He studied the picture and then looked at me.

“Five hundred dollars,” he said. “I’ll have to refresh my memory.”

I considered my options and then looked in my wallet.

“All I have is two-eighty,” I said, counting it out. “And I need ten of that to get back to St. John.”

He twirled the gun on one hand then pointed it at me again.

“Give me your wallet,” he said.

I handed it over and he looked inside, counting the bills. He removed all but a ten and then tossed it back at me.

“Passports,” he said. “She came here last spring and bought some passports.”

“Under what name?” I asked.

He stared at me before turning to his computer screen. After a few moments of typing, one of the printers beside him whirred to life. When the paper shot out, he grabbed it, looked at it, and then handed it over to me.

It held the images of three passports—one with Dianne’s photo, one of Earl, and one of Larry.

Larry?

I was so stunned I had to force myself to look again. But, yes, it was the very same Larry who had come over to the house with Jodi a couple times, the one who worked as an insurance adjuster at the archaeological dig site.

On the passports, however, they were listed as Beth, Truman, and Peter Magee, and their address was a town in Montana.

“The real Magees died in a boating accident here a few years ago,” he said. “When that lady came asking for passports for her, her husband, and her grown son, it seemed like a good fit. I think the son could pass for thirty-nine, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” I whispered, studying Larry’s face in the photo. He had that same familiar smile he’d worn the night we met. Was he really their
son?
My head felt as though it were spinning.

I folded the paper and tucked it in my bag, hoping this man would now let me leave.

“Thank you very much,” I said, scooting to the front of my seat. “You’ve been a big help.”

He twisted his wrist so that the gun was pointed again at me.

“Two hundred seventy for the info, not the paper,” he said. “I need it back.”

Nodding, I pulled it from my bag. He took it from me, dropped it into his metal trash can, and then lit a match and flung it in on top. I felt sure he expected some dramatic sort of flame to shoot up, but instead the match just sat there, very slowly catching the paper on fire.

“How do I know you won’t go to the nearest police station and tell them all about my little side business?” he asked as we watched it burn.

Our eyes met.

“I posed as a federal agent to get in your door,” I replied sheepishly. “I guess that makes us about even.”

He smiled and then he surprised me by putting the gun back in the drawer and sliding it shut. We both stood. He walked me to the door, opened it for me, and then he reached out and shook my hand.

“Nice doing business with you,” he said. “Do me a favor and don’t come back.”

Thirty-Six