Ron Base - Sanibel Sunset Detective 01 - The Sanibel Sunset Detective (16 page)

She grunted. “Follow me.”

A hallway with a linoleum floor you could eat off led to a small conference room. Detective Mel Scott slumped in a chair at the head of the table, flanked by an Asian male with spiky hair, wearing a dark suit and a blue tie. It was not every day you saw someone in a tie on Sanibel Island. The kid was practically a tourist attraction.

Seated across from the tourist attraction, an African American woman with glossy hair falling in a smooth wave to her shoulders glanced up from her Blackberry. Her business suit featured purple pinstripes, more elegant than the tourist attraction’s suit. Tree looked at her, and then looked again, longing to get out his reading glasses to make sure. His vanity wouldn’t allow it.

Cee Jay Boone was saying, “Tree, these are FBI agents. They’ve come over from Miami to have a word with you.”

The Asian male shot to his feet pumping Tree’s hand. “Shawn Lazenby.”

The woman leaned forward to offer a cool firm handshake. “Savannah Trask.”

Even without his glasses on, he could see that in her early forties she still had that breathtaking coffee-smooth complexion. He caught a familiar scent as she took her hand away from his.

Mel Scott gave Tree one of his trademark scowls. “Anything wrong?”

“Not at all,” Tree said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been called into police headquarters first thing in the morning and introduced to FBI agents without warning.”

Cee Jay Boone said, “Why don’t you sit down, Tree? Would you like coffee?”

“I’m wondering if I should call my lawyer.”

Cee Jay looked over at Savannah Trask. “What do you think, Agent Trask? Has Tree any reason to call a lawyer?”

“No, of course not.” Savannah’s eyes fixed on Tree. “We want to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”

“About what?”

“Please, take a seat,” Savannah Trask said.

Tree eased himself into the empty chair.

Cee Jay Boone gave Mel Scott a look. He rose from the table. “We’ll leave you to it,” he said.

Mel followed Cee Jay out the door. It closed behind them, leaving him alone with the two agents.

“You’re a local private detective is that right?” This from Agent Shawn Lazenby. He consulted a notebook on the table in front of him.

“That’s right,” Tree said.

“How long have you been a detective?”

“A month,” Tree said.

Shawn glanced up from his notebook. “You said a month?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re licensed by the state of Florida?”

“Obviously.”

Shawn Lazenby’s gaze returned to his notebook.

“You met Reno O’Hara when he came to your office. Is that correct?”

Tree nodded.

“According to the local police, he threatened you.”

“That’s right. He said he was looking for someone. He thought I knew this person.”

“Why do you suppose he thought that?” Savannah Trask’s voice was neutral.

“I have no idea,” Tree said. “I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Has that changed?” A follow-up question from Savannah.

“Has what changed?”

“I mean, do you now know who Reno was looking for?”

“I understand he was looking for his son, Marcello.

“After he visited your office, did you see Reno again?”

“I was following a woman named Michelle Crowley in connection with another matter. She met up with O’Hara in Naples and had dinner with him. I believe O’Hara might have seen me and was one of three intruders who invaded my house later that night.”

“Mickey Crowley being one of the others?”

“Maybe her husband, too. Dwayne Crowley. He was in Coleman, but he might be out now.”

“You don’t know that for a fact.” Shawn Lazenby gave him a sharp look.

“I’m pretty certain I saw him in Naples. For just a moment, but I think it was him. Can’t you check this out? It shouldn’t take long to find out if Dwayne’s still in jail.”

Neither agent said anything. Savannah Trask cleared her throat. “Let’s go back to Marcello. Do you know where he is?”

“No.”

A flash of irritation signaled Savannah’s dislike of that answer.

“Whoever killed Reno O’Hara will be looking for the boy,” she said. “The sooner we find him, the sooner we can protect him.”

“Why would the FBI be interested in either O’Hara or Marcello?”

Shawn Lazenby said, “That’s information we’d just as soon not divulge at this juncture.”

“At this juncture,” Tree repeated. “At what juncture might you be prepared to divulge it?”

There was an edge to Savannah’s voice. “Are you sure you can’t tell us where your client is?”

“No, in fact, I can’t. I’ve tried to reassure him that my wife and I are on his side, that he would be safer with us or with the police. But he’s scared. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

“That’s the point, Mr. Callister. We want to help the boy. Running loose the way he is, not only endangers Marcello but you and your wife as well.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Savannah Trask rose to her feet, coming into sharper focus, reminding Tree how age can sometimes fail badly when it sets out to defeat beauty.

“If Marcello shows up again, would you let us know?” She handed him a card. “This has my cell phone number.”

Her fingers touched his arm. He would like to have said he felt no electrical surge. But he would have been lying.

“We want what’s best for the boy, we really do,” she said. “Please try to assure him of that if you talk to him. Tell him that he doesn’t have anything to fear from us. We can make him safe.”

Agent Shawn Lazenby didn’t offer a card. Just his hand and a cold smile. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

22

A
new dynamic was at work in their marriage. Previously, everything revolved around Freddie and her job—Freddie’s relocation to Sanibel, Freddie’s clashes with Ray Dayton, Freddie arguing for new computer systems, fighting for best practices, wrestling with inventory, staff problems.

All that changed overnight. A job that a week ago was a joke, had, to Tree’s amazement, taken center stage. In the evening, Freddie showed scant interest in discussing her day. Instead, she devoured Tree’s news, the two of them on the terrace outlined in the gold and crimson of the waning sun, sifting and dissecting what they knew about the case—she called it the case—analyzing the latest intelligence, debating what should be done next.

The case.

He admitted to himself that the case had the effect of making him more duplicitous. It was not that he lied as such; he simply found it easier to withhold certain things. For example, he did not tell Freddie about his interview with the two FBI agents. That is, he did not say anything until he got a telephone call after he’d been home for an hour.

“It’s Savannah Trask,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

That caused Tree’s heart to jolt. It should not have. But it did.

“Are you busy?”

“Well, I’m home.” Stupid. Of course he was home.

“Can you get away? I’d like to have a word with you.”

“When?”

“Now. I’m at the South Seas Resort. Suite 5-1-9.”

The line went dead. He hung up and turned to find Freddie leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him expectantly.

“That was the FBI agent I was just going to tell you about,” he said.

“The FBI?” Freddie frowned.

“They interviewed me this morning.”

“About what?”

“About Marcello.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I was honest with them,” he said trying to head off any discussion around the degree of his honesty. “The good news is they want to find Marcello as badly as we do, and protect him.”

“Protect him from what exactly?”

“They don’t mind me telling them things, but they don’t say much back. Anyway, that was one of the agents. They want to talk to me again.”

“Tonight?”

“They’re staying at the South Seas.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

He hesitated. “I’d better do this alone.”

“Are you sure?”

Not really, he thought. He really wasn’t sure of anything, least of all how he was going to handle this.

____

Driving to the South Seas Resort, Tree imagined Savannah Trask answering the door in lingerie. Exactly what kind of lingerie he couldn’t decide. Possibly something in line with the Gold Medal paperback novels he devoured as a teenager. Their covers invariably featured beautiful women spilling out of scanty underwear. The thought left him unexpectedly short of breath and feeling a little guilty. Did he want to be seduced? Ridiculous. He was going over there to get the meeting over with and get back home.

Tree turned through the South Seas entrance gate and parked in the lot. Savannah opened her door as soon as he knocked. No lingerie. He felt curiously and ridiculously relieved. Savannah wore sensible shorts and an oversize T-shirt with FBI in big letters—in case Tree forgot who she was, and the potential danger she represented.

“Come in,” she said in that clipped, professional manner of hers.

A large travel bag lay open on a king-size bed. Business clothes hung neatly in the louvered closets. An Apple notebook was set up on the desk. The new Michael Lewis book was on a night table beside the bed, right next to her copy of
The Economist.
Savannah Trask looked as though she was planning to stay a while.

“Can I call to get you something?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Why don’t we sit at the table over there?”

A delicate white table on dainty legs was flanked by two wrought-iron chairs. He sat across from her, settling back, trying to get comfortable and failing.

She smiled. “So what did you think when you saw me this morning?”

He tried a casual smile back but couldn’t quite make his mouth work. What did he think? “I’m not quite sure,” he said truthfully. “Surprised, I suppose.”

To say the least.

“Meeting my ex-boyfriend after all these years, I must say I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Is that what I am?”

“The white bread Chicago newspaperman and the naïve young African American law student. That was us, wasn’t it?”

“So now the law student is an FBI agent,” he said.

“That surprises you?”

“I thought you’d end up as a partner in a high-powered law firm in either Chicago or New York.”

“Well, you can imagine my shock to discover my old roommate, the veteran newspaperman, is out of the business entirely, and married yet again—although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the married part. You always did like being married, Tree.”

“Or maybe I didn’t like it at all,” he said. “Why I kept failing at it.”

“Are you failing this time? What number is this? Four? Five?”

“Four,” he said. “And the answer is no, not this time.”

“Good for you. So here you are on Sanibel Island, a private detective of all things.”

She paused to give him a chance to respond. When he didn’t she leaned forward, those grey eyes bright with—what?—inquisitiveness? Challenge?

“I mean, come on Tree, are you really serious about this detective stuff?”

“Savannah, let’s get to the point of why I’m here, okay? My wife’s waiting for me at home.”

She sat back in her chair, darkness descending. If past history was any indication, the time for trying to manipulate the situation was over. Time to administer the blunt instrument.

“All right, the point is two murders have been committed. The Sanibel Island police do not rule you out as a possible suspect in both cases. Are you aware of that?”

He tried not to look shocked. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

“They don’t believe you’re telling them everything you know about either case. What’s more, they believe you are keeping the whereabouts of the boy from them.”

“What do you think, Savannah?”

She leaned forward, face intense. “Do I think you’re being completely honest? No, I don’t.”

He did not recall honesty being one of Savannah’s strong points, either.

“How can I be honest with you?”

“Tell me where Marcello is.”

“I told you before, I don’t know. I said it to the police. I said it to the people who broke into my house the other night. No one seems to believe me, but I keep saying the same thing over and over again.”

“Maybe because everyone has a hard time imagining that a twelve-year-old boy can stay hidden without some adult help.”

“Why is the FBI so interested in him?”

“He’s an important part of an ongoing investigation.”

“And you’re investigating what, exactly?”