Collateral Damage (23 page)

“I wonder why.”

“Suppose that Doc
is
being blackmailed and for some reason he decided to stop making the payments. Maybe whoever he was paying off decided that murdering his son would be an object lesson and the money would start flowing again. The extra hundred may be interest.”

“Why kill his son?”

“I don't know. Maybe the message was that Doc's wife would be next, or maybe his daughter-in-law, if he didn't pay up.”

“And add a little vig to the payment,” I said. “Say, a hundred grand.”

“Right.”

“But if they're blackmailing him, why not just release whatever evidence they have that he had done something crooked or whatever it is they're holding over his head.”

“Because that would kill the goose that lays the two hundred grand eggs. By killing his son, the bad guys would send a powerful message and keep the money rolling in.”

“We need to bring J.D. up to date,” I said.

I called her cell phone. “You busy?” I asked when she answered.

“On my way to the Village. Another murder investigation.”

“What?”

“Two deaths. Poisoning, I think.”

I was concerned. I knew practically everybody in the village. “Who?”

“A couple of peacocks.”

“Geez, Duncan. That's cruel.”

“I thought so. Poor birds.”

“Right. Can you have lunch with Jock and me?”

“Sure. I'll be through with the peacocks by then.”

“Meet us at Moore's”

“This is one weird investigation,” said J.D.

We were sitting in the dining room at Moore's Stone Crab Restaurant at a table next to the windows that provided a view twelve miles down the bay to the city of Sarasota. It was usually a breathtaking vista, but today the drizzling rain and low clouds obscured it. I'd filled J.D. in on what we
knew, what we suspected, and what we surmised. I told her about my confusion at all the threads of the investigation, none of which seemed to coalesce into any coherent whole.

“Maybe,” she said, “we can start eliminating suspects. The last one standing is probably the culprit.”

“I don't have any idea how to go about that,” I said.

“We could start with Mantella in Orlando,” said Jock.

“Or,” said J.D., “you could just call your buddy and ask him straight out about the payments to Vietnam.”

“I don't think so,” I said. “If he suckered me into this in some way, he's not going to tell me the truth. If he says he's not dirty, I wouldn't believe him at this point.”

Jock said, “You've been sending him all the memos on what we're doing, so if he's up to something, he knows pretty much everything we know.”

“Yeah, one more reason for me not to call him. I think we'd better find out more about his operation. Maybe when Jock's agency people get back to us with the information on the Ho Chi Minh City bank account, we'll know more.”

J.D. looked at Jock. “Any idea when that'll be?”

“No,” he said. “I'll call the director and see if we can light a fire under somebody. I'd bet they already have a back door into that bank's computers, so it shouldn't be too big of a job.”

“Can you call him today?” asked J.D.

“As soon as we get through eating,” Jock said.

“Maybe you could do it while we're waiting for our food,” she said.

Jock grinned. “Maybe I could.” He got up and left the table.

When he returned, he said, “They've got some sort of big emergency going on up there that all the computer geeks are working on. The director assured me he'd e-mail me everything we need by noon tomorrow.”

“Maybe we should go talk to Mantella,” said Jock.

And that's what we decided to do. As it happened, I relearned the lesson that snap decisions often don't work out too well.

We drove I-75 north to I-4 and then east to Orlando. Just past Disney we ran into the traffic jam that always starts building at mid-afternoon. It was almost five when we parked in front of a high-rise condo building on Rosalind Avenue in downtown Orlando. This was the address we had for Chick Mantella.

We'd decided that the best place to find him was his condo, but we didn't want to confront him there. He didn't know us, and if we casually bumped into him at a bar, we might have a better chance of getting the information we needed.

We left the car and scouted the building. There were several entrances. One was the main entrance into a lobby that faced Rosalind Avenue and the four floors above of parking garage, each with its own exit from the elevator lobby on that floor. J.D. had run Mantella's name through Florida and North Carolina databases until she found a car registered in the name of Chesley Ambruster Mantella, Jr. It was a black Mercedes with a North Carolina license plate.

There was no doorman at the main entrance, but the door was locked and controlled by a card key. We walked around to the ramp leading to the garage. It was open. Jock took the second floor garage and I took the third. I was halfway down the first row of cars when I saw Mantella's Mercedes. I called Jock on my cell phone and met him back at my car. We drove around to Robinson Street and parked in a bank parking lot that gave us a view of the ramp to the garage.

“We know he's home,” I said.

“Unless he went out with somebody else.”

“There's that. Hope for the best.”

We sat for twenty minutes, listening to NPR on the Explorer's radio. The black Mercedes came down the ramp, made a left turn onto Robinson, and drove west. The driver was alone. “Looks like our guy,” said Jock.

“It does.” I pulled out and followed our quarry. He crossed under I-4 and took the on-ramp for the westbound interstate.

“Where the hell is he going?” asked Jock.

“Beats me. Let's hope it's not far. I've got to pee.”

Chick didn't go very far. He took the Conroy Road exit, turned left onto Vineland Road, and then another left onto Kirkman Road. In a few minutes we pulled into the parking lot of a Hooters Restaurant.

“I think he's in a rut,” said Jock.

“At least we can get something to eat. I love their chicken wings.”

The place looked pretty much like every Hooters I'd ever been in. There was a U-shaped bar jutting from the back wall and a large dining area with booths and tables. Chick had planted himself at a table near the bar, his pinkie diamonds assuring us that we had the right guy.

We sat at the bar, on the side that gave us an unobstructed view of Mantella. I ordered the wings and a diet Coke and Jock asked for a salad and water. The place was filling up with the after-work crowd, an eclectic group of hard hats, business suits, and a few sunburned tourists wearing Disney and Universal Studio T-shirts.

Chick seemed to be in constant conversation with any one of several waitresses. They would bring him a drink, each one a dark amber whiskey over ice in a cocktail glass, linger for a few minutes, laughing and working on their cuteness, and then move on. He knocked back the drinks with alacrity, quickly as if trying to get drunk, or just maybe encouraging the next waitress to return with another drink and a little company.

“You know, Jock,” I said, “that is one sad bastard there. I almost feel sorry for him. I guess this is his life, sitting in Hooters, talking up the girls that wouldn't give him the time of day without the big tip.”

“Yeah, and he may have murdered one of them.”

“I know. You just wonder what drives people.”

We watched for a while longer. Chick was drinking quickly, ordering another, and quaffing that one. The more he drank, the louder he got. When we judged him pretty well potted, I walked over to his table.

“Aren't you John Doremus?” I asked.

He looked at me, his eyes squinting, his concentration skewered by the booze. “Who're you?”

“I'm Ed Hollingsworth. We met in Charlotte a couple of months back. At Hooters.”

“Don't remember you.” His speech was slow, his enunciation careful, the drunk's attempt to hide the extent of his inebriation.

“I'm the stockbroker. You were telling me you'd inherited some money and wanted some advice on where to invest it.”

“Oh, sure. How are you?”

“Great. Small world, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, did you ever get some of that waitress you were working up there?”

“I got a lot of them.”

“Yeah, but this one was special. What was her name? Kitt, Kate, Kat? That's it. Katherine.”

He squinted again, concentrating on me, suspicious now. Maybe I'd overplayed the hand. “What's your name?”

“Ed Hollingsworth.”

“What do you know about Kat?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering. You seemed pretty focused on her that night.”

“I think you have me mixed up with somebody else.”

“You are John Doremus, aren't you?”

“Yes, but I don't remember anybody named Kat. Why don't you go on back to your seat. I like being alone.”

“Okay. Nice seeing you again.”

I walked back to the bar and sat. I looked over at Chick's table. He was staring at me, a hard look with no warmth. He waved one of the waitresses over, pulled out a wad of bills, gave a few to her, and walked out. Jock had paid our tab while I was talking to Chick. We followed him out to the parking lot.

The wind was up, but the rain had stopped. Night had fallen and shadows danced on the asphalt, the palm fronds stirred by the breeze
diffusing the glow from the security lights. Chick was walking toward his car as we came up behind him.

“John,” I called.

He stopped, turned, and showed us the pistol in his hand. “Who the fuck are you?”

I stopped dead, raising my hands. “Whoa, friend. Stay cool. What's this all about?”

“You come around asking me about a dead girl and I'm supposed to stay cool? Who are you?”

“I told you. I'm Ed Hollingsworth.”

“Bullshit. I saw you following me from my condo, watched you come into the bar. You waited until you thought I was drunk before coming over. What kind of fool do you take me for?”

“Obviously you're not as big a fool as I thought, Chick.”

He laughed. “How in the hell did you find me?”

“It wasn't hard,” said Jock. “We're cops.”

That seemed to rock Chick a bit. “Let me see some ID.”

Jock pulled a small leather case out of his back pocket, held it up and took two steps toward Chick.

“Stop right there,” said Chick. “Toss it over here.”

Jock was maybe four feet from Chick when he threw the case toward him. It landed at Chick's feet. He bent over to pick it up and Jock launched himself, covering the four feet in a split second. He caught Mantella while he was bending over to pick up the case, the force of his body taking Chick back onto the asphalt. Jock quickly disarmed him and stood. “Stay on the ground,” he said, pointing the pistol at Chick.

“You're not cops.”

“No.”

“Don't kill me.”

“I wouldn't think of it,” said Jock. “Let's get him in your car, Matt. I don't want anybody calling the real cops.”

I pulled a pair of flex cuffs out of a bag in the back of the Explorer. We secured Chick in the backseat and Jock and I sat in the front, turned so that we could see him.

“What do you want?” Mantella asked.

“Tell us about EZGo Travel.”

“Shit. Nothing to it.”

“You formed the business, right?”

“Yes. But it never got up and going.”

“You used it to lure Katherine Brewster to Anna Maria Island. Why?”

“You don't understand. We were in love. I had to get her away from her boyfriend so we could be together.”

“You sick fuck,” I said. “She didn't want anything to do with you.”

“Yes she did.”

“She told you to leave her alone.”

“That was just for the boyfriend's benefit. She didn't really mean it.”

“Why Anna Maria Island?” I asked.

“It's romantic.”

“Did you meet her there?” I asked.

“No. I was going to, but I got delayed in Charlotte.”

“Why the delay?”

“Come on, man. I don't want to talk about this.”

“I'm going to shoot you if you don't,” said Jock.

“Okay, but it's kind of embarrassing,” Chick said.

“I don't know what can be more embarrassing than laying dead in a Hooters parking lot,” I said.

“I got a dose of clap,” Chick said, resignation in his voice.

“Clap?” I asked. “Gonorrhea?”

“Yes.”

“From one of the Hooters girls?” I asked.

“No. I paid for a whore one night. I started having burning when I peed and went to the doctor. He shot me up with penicillin, but it took a few days to clear up. I didn't want to give it to Kat, so I stayed in Charlotte getting the treatment.”

“Geez,” Jock said. “You're some piece of work.”

“Hey. How was I supposed to know the bitch had the clap? Cost me a hundred bucks. You'd think for that price you'd get one who wasn't diseased.”

“You went to Anna Maria eventually, didn't you?” I was thinking
about the gasoline he bought in Bradenton on his EZGo credit card on the night of the
Dulcimer
murders.

“Yes.”

“Did you talk to Katherine?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I went to the inn where she was staying and parked outside waiting for her. She came out but got in her car before I could say anything. I followed her to the restaurant where she went on the boat.”

“If you were in love, why didn't you just call her and tell her you were on the island?” I asked.

“You don't understand. She had to keep up appearances for the boyfriend. I couldn't just call her. I had to bump into her somewhere. Like in a bar.”