Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 02 - Crash Course (12 page)

The cabin was small but tidy, with two bunks built into one wall and a minuscule galley kitchen built onto the other. At the V of the hull, there was a hatch. Probably leads to the head and storage, Truman thought. Built into the wall near the galley was a drop-down wooden table. Two old wooden chairs were drawn up to the table, which held a bowl of peanuts and two cans of beer.

“Frankie says you still do some reporting,” Guthrie said, handing Truman one of the beers. “That’s the bad thing about law enforcement. You’re either in it or out. And I’m too fat and too old to do that security shit some of the guys get into. Sit down. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

Truman sat down, conscious of his wet clothes. He took a sip of his beer. It was ice-cold, maybe the coldest beer he’d ever had.

Guthrie took a handful of peanuts and tossed them in his mouth, followed by a long pull on his beer.

Truman took a handful of nuts, too, and munched silently.

“You live downtown somewhere?” Guthrie asked.

“Yeah,” Truman said. “I used to live over on the south side. I moved into a residential hotel downtown, right after I lost my wife last year.”

Guthrie gave him a quick nod of sympathy.

“Never married myself. I sold the condo in Orlando after I got out. I’ve been living on board here off and on since January. But I been thinking about getting a bigger rig, so I can do some deepwater sailing.”

“You were with the state a long time, weren’t you?” Truman asked. “Going back to the beginning, I heard.”

“Way back,” Guthrie said. “I joined the FDLE back in the sixties, right when Claude Kirk put the agency together.”

“Right after that flap with the Wackenhuts?” Truman asked. “Old Claude Kirk. Gave ‘em fits up there in Tallahassee, didn’t he?”

A lifelong Democrat, Truman had viewed Kirk, Florida’s first Republican governor since Reconstruction, with a mixture of alarm, amusement, and disgust. Kirk had been flamboyant, autocratic. He’d decided the state should have its own police force, and hired Wackenhut detectives to man his fledgling Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Kirk had served only one term before Florida’s voters had returned to the safe, brown-shoe type of Democrat they were used to.

While the rain beat lightly on the deck of the sailboat, they played who-do-you-know, Truman waiting for the right moment to turn the conversation toward Ronnie Bondurant. Truman knew someone he knew, Guthrie knew some of Truman’s former colleagues. They discovered that Guthrie had worked a sensational kidnap-murder case in Sebring in the early seventies—a case Truman had covered.

Guthrie got up and got a second beer and held one up for Truman.

Truman looked out the porthole. The rain had stopped and the sun was back out.

“Better not,” he said reluctantly. “If I have another beer in this heat, I won’t be good for a durned thing.”

“Yeah,” Clyde said. “A boat’s a hell of a lot of work.” He shrugged. “But what else have I got to do with my time. Right? Anyway, you wanted to ask me something. Go ahead.”

The sky was a brilliant blue. The rain clouds had blown off to the east somewhere, and Guthrie was getting fidgety.

“I’m interested in a guy named Ronnie Bondurant,” Truman said. “He’s local talent I know you mostly worked in Orlando, but I wondered if you ever had any contact with the FDLE guys over here on the east coast, somebody who might know something about him.”

Guthrie grinned. “I play poker with the Tampa crew every Tuesday night. The agent in charge over there is an old running buddy of mine.”

“Is that so?” Truman said.

“Getting stuffy in here,” Guthrie said. “Let’s go up on deck. Rain ought to have cooled things off a little.”

They pulled some lawn chairs out on the deck and Clyde gave Truman an insulated foam holder for his beer. It was blue with a gold seal. “FDLE.”

Truman told Guthrie the whole story, including the part about his visit to Jeff Cantrell’s landlady and the old clip files he’d found on Ronnie Bondurant. Guthrie listened without making any comment until Truman was done.

“Bondurant,” Guthrie said, sipping his beer. “Now that’s a name I know from somewhere.”

“It’s that big used-car lot up on U.S. 19,” Truman said. “It’s got a revolving ‘57 pink Caddie on the roof. Kind of a landmark, you might say.”

“I know the place, but I’m thinking of another Bondurant, maybe. I knew about a case with a Bondurant once.”

“Here in St. Pete?”

“No, I’m thinking this Bondurant was down around Broward County. Ft. Lauderdale, maybe. Seems like it was a fella whose name started with an ‘L.’ Lawton. Lawson. Something unusual like that.”

Guthrie scratched his belly as he contemplated. It was a sizeable appendage, that belly. It lapped over his faded, paint-spattered blue jeans, and made a handy shelf for Guthrie’s beer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said slowly. “Can’t get the name, but the rest is coming back. This other Bondurant, he sold cars, too. Had a little lot down there on Dixie Highway. And he had a little twenty-year-old girlfriend, too, who up and disappeared one day.”

“Murdered?” Truman’s fingertips were tingling.

Guthrie shrugged. “That’s what everybody figured. The Broward sheriff’s office brought our folks in. We worked it for a long time, two years, maybe. Never could find that girl. No body, nothing.”

“Two Bondurants in the used-car racket, two people who disappear,” Truman said. “Kind of funny.”

“Unless you’re one of the ones who disappeared,” Guthrie pointed out. “Wasn’t my case. Another fella in our office worked it, but I remember this much because it had him stymied. Frustrated.”

Truman took a last swallow of beer. He never drank the last inch or so in a can. He couldn’t stomach beer that had gotten the least little bit warm.

“Tell you what, Kicklighter,” Guthrie said. “You’ve got me curious now. I’m gonna call over to Tampa and get one of those computer jockeys over there to do some checking around. Ronnie Bondurant, you said. Right?”

Truman nodded.

“I’ll let you know if anything turns up. That sound all right?”

“Sounds fine,” Truman said, standing up to go. “You want my phone number?”

“Nah,” Guthrie said, holding out his hand to shake on the deal. “You’re in the book, right? How many Kicklighters could there be?”

It had been a long night. Wormy had done what he always did. He had taken care of business.

Ronnie was on the phone when Wormy walked into the private office with his cardboard cup of 7-Eleven coffee.

“Yeah. It’s all taken care of,” Ronnie said. “I told you, Boone, you’re not dealing with amateurs. Yeah. He’s right here.”

Wormy flipped a bird at the phone. Ronnie shook his head like he agreed. Hernando Boone was a pain in the ass. But he had to be dealt with.

“Yeah,” Ronnie was saying. “Wormy took care of it. He’s a pro. I’ll let you know. Gotta run.”

Ronnie put the phone back in its cradle and kneaded the bridge of his nose with his fingertips, like he could rub away the memory of Hernando Boone.

“Boone wants to partner with us on some deals,” he said, looking up at Wormy.

“What do we need him for?” Wormy demanded. “We got a thing of our own, don’t we? We’re doing good without that asshole.”

“Good, but we could be doing better. Boone can give us volume. He’s a psycho, but he’s a psycho with cash. He works with us, we can run deals in other states. Georgia. Alabama. South Carolina. I’m checking with some people I know in Mississippi. It’s wide open. Car titles, all that shit.”

“What about Doc?” Wormy wanted to know. He didn’t trust this big steroid-addled, ex-jock buddy of Ronnie’s. That was the trouble with Ronnie. A Napoleon complex, was that what it was? Like a lot of short guys Wormy had known, Ronnie thought anybody who played sports was a god.

“I thought Doc was gonna help us with all this stuff,” Wormy said. “Get us more into personal-injury stuff. That’s where the money is, Doc says.”

“He says,” Ronnie said dryly. “Doc says a lot of stuff. But his ex-wife is squeezing his balls right now. She wants the house, the cars, the boat. Everything. He’s distracted. So I’m saying maybe we consider another kind of partnership.”

“Consider,” Wormy repeated. “But it’s not a done deal.”

“Not at all,” Ronnie said soothingly.

The front door to the office opened then, and a bell pealed softly to let them know they weren’t alone. They heard the tap of heels on the tile floor in the outer office.

“Hello?” It was a woman’s voice. Soft, tentative. “Jeff?”

Ronnie was halfway out of his chair before she got to the door of his office.

“Yoo-hoo. Anybody home?” she called playfully. The door opened.

Ronnie froze.

The woman in the doorway had a way of doing that. To men, anyway. She entered a room and men stood there, quietly, their eyes dilating, their breathing irregular, like deer caught in a set of headlights.

Her hair was what they noticed first. It was a shining blue-black curtain that fell past her hips.

After the hair, they noticed the body. How could you not? She was tall, narrow through the hips and shoulders, but with the most magnificent set of breasts Ronnie and Wormy had ever had the privilege to stare at. Her legs were nice, a little skinny, but nothing to complain about.

She was dressed in a simple white T-shirt, black denim shorts, and high-heeled white sandals. Her hand kept going up to her hair, to touch it, flick a strand out of her eyes. Her face was pretty, regular features, slightly Asian eyes with thick, fluttery black lashes. A little too much makeup for a nice girl.

“Who are you?” Ronnie was bewitched.

“I’m looking for Jeff Cantrell,” the woman said. She looked from Ronnie to Wormy.

“Isn’t he working today?” Now she was beginning to sense that something was wrong. She took a step backward, shook her hair back over her shoulders. “Just ask him to call me. LeeAnn. Okay?”

Ronnie cleared his throat and turned on the charm full throttle.

“LeeAnn? Is it about a car? Because if it’s about a car, I’m the man you need to see. I’m Ronnie Bondurant. President of Bondurant Motors. Jeff’s boss.”

“I have a car,” she said. “Jeff sold it to me. This is personal.”

“We can be personal,” Ronnie said, winking.

“Very personal,” Wormy agreed.

LeeAnn backed away a little bit toward the door. These guys were making her nervous. Where was Jeff?

“Never mind. I’ll catch him at home,” she said.

Ronnie followed her as she retreated quickly toward the parking lot.

“Listen, LeeAnn,” he said urgently. “I’m surprised Jeff didn’t mention this to you. He quit yesterday. Went over to the east coast ‘cause he had a job over there. He didn’t tell you he was leaving? Some friend, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “I talked to Jeff yesterday. He was right here, right on this car lot. He never said anything about another job.”

“What a jerk,” Ronnie said sympathetically. “Afraid of commitment. That was Jeff. Am I right?”

“No,” she said. “Jeff wouldn’t have left town without telling me. Where did you say he went?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Lauderdale, maybe? He knew I was pissed at him for leaving me in the lurch like that.”

LeeAnn’s hands were shaking as she got her car keys out of her purse. Had Jeff dumped her?

Ronnie put his hand over hers. “Give me your number, okay? If he calls, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

She hesitated, then took a scrap of paper out of her purse, wrote down her phone number, and handed it over.

Ronnie gave her another wink. “You might be getting lonely, with Jeff out of town. Might want some company.”

The hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle. “I have a cat,” she said quickly.

Wormy stood in the doorway of the office and watched Ronnie put the moves on Jeff’s girlfriend. He had a bad feeling. Cantrell had never said anything about a chick. He’d hit on every woman who walked onto the lot, young, old, fat, ugly. Who knew he had a girlfriend? Especially a knockout like this one.

Ronnie waved the slip of paper at him when he came back in. “I’m gonna get me some of that,” he said happily.

“What if she keeps asking questions about where Cantrell went?” Wormy asked.

“Once she gets a dose of Ronnie Bondurant, she ain’t gonna be asking for nothing but more,” Ronnie said and laughed. “You leave that to me, buddy.”

Wormy followed Ronnie back into his office.

“We got an operation to run this morning,” Ronnie reminded Wormy. “I got the monkey all lined up. How about you? Where’s that Corvette at?”

“What?” Wormy said, his voice rising. “We can’t put that car back on the road, Ronnie. What if that black chick sees it? What if she does get the cops to come back here and sniff around some more?”

Ronnie waved away his protests. “Don’t worry about that little old colored girl. She ain’t gonna see nothing. So let’s get to it, huh?”