The Shop (21 page)

“What did she say?”

“She said he was sneaking around spying on the vice president. She was lying.”

Landry thought this was an interesting side trip. He didn’t know if it had any bearing on his own investigation. He’d have to ask Franklin about it. It was an interesting coincidence that Luke Perdue got himself killed in a motel holding a woman hostage.

Was this the hostage Special Agent Eric Salter shot? Eric Salter, the FBI agent he was currently impersonating.

Eric Salter had been consumed with guilt because his shot had taken out both the bad guy and the female hostage. Someone—Cardamone, probably—blackmailed Salter into doing jobs for him. He had been one of the two men keeping track of Franklin Haddox.

Small world.

The dogs accompanied them to the octagon house. They’d run ahead, then circle back. Always watching Landry and Riley to gauge their reactions. Outside the octagon house, Riley turned into a tour director. She gave Landry a canned speech she must have repeated a hundred times. There were two stories, a basement, and a cupola, she said. The low hill it sat on was man-made, she said. You could see the whole island from the cupola, she said.

Close up, the octagon house looked smaller than he’d expected. Riley told him the island had been built almost from scratch in the twenties—the reason it could accommodate a basement and the tunnels in an area where you normally wouldn’t find basements or tunnels. The tunnel, she said, was considered a “structural marvel”—those were the words she used—and had been designed in such a way that it would not flood during storms. She also told him her grandfather was sensitive to sunlight, so he had a room in the basement. Stairs from the outside led down to the basement. Landry noted that the steps had once been wide but were now narrow, to make room for the wheelchair ramp running alongside.

They went up the steps into the house, the dogs’ toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. The ankle-biters had given up trying to penetrate Landry’s desert boots.

The floor was empty of furniture. The room partitions had been taken out, except for what appeared to be a kitchen and a bathroom by the stairwell along the far wall. The windows let in plenty of sunlight. You would be able to see someone coming from all eight windows.

“What do you use this place for?” Landry asked.

“Mostly press conferences, when the veep is here. We rent this floor out for parties and weddings. We don’t really need the money, but Mommy thinks the place should be used. Once a month, some wildlife group meets here. Upstairs is storage.”

“May I look around?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

She’d clearly lost interest in him. The novelty had worn off. It was heartbreaking. He would need years of therapy to recover from such a devastating blow. As he went up the stairs, he heard her talking on her cell phone.

The upstairs was as advertised. Jumbles of old furniture, some of which might be antique—Landry wouldn’t know. Ranks of folding chairs and long folding tables, school cafeteria-type stuff. The door to the cupola was locked. He came back down the stairs, his shoes echoing in the empty space. The dogs funneled down behind him and followed as he stepped into the sunlight.

Riley was outside, texting.

Frank drove up in his golf cart. “Don’t you think we should get this show on the road?”

“We’re just getting to know each other,” Riley said between text messages. By now it was a symbolic fight, not a real one.

“Scoot.”

“Daddy—”

“I mean it.”

“Fine.” She didn’t stomp off, but it was close.

Frank patted the passenger seat of the golf cart. Landry got in. “I thought we’d go to the cabanas,” Frank said as they zipped down the path. “It’s private, so no one will overhear.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Nope. Just cautious. This guy has antennae like a lobster.”

“He won’t be able to bother anybody when he’s in supermax.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

As Landry had surmised, the cabanas were really bungalows, tastefully done up in what Landry thought was a cross between art deco and beach cottage. “Before we get started,” Landry said, “I’d like to see the passageway.”

“Sure thing.” Franklin led him outside and around to a small structure, a pool shed set flush to their cabana. Inside, pool equipment was hung neatly. There was a narrow space to the right, and beyond that a small closet—a restroom for the landscapers, Frank said. He opened the door to what looked like basement steps in a regular house. The steps and walls were concrete. The workmanship was nothing to write home about, but the tunnel had lasted since the twenties—not bad. Frank pulled the string to the overhead lightbulb and they started down, their footsteps echoing on the walls. It got damper and cooler as they went down, seven steps. The steps opened onto a narrow passageway stretching into the darkness. The tunnel reminded Landry of a mineshaft, timbered at intervals. He had to hunch his shoulders and pull his head in like a turtle to go through. Overhead bulbs lit the way. You had to pull each one on as you went—very low-tech. Three of them were out. About thirty yards in, they came to a T. Franklin explained that the tunnel on the left led to the octagon house. They took the tunnel on the right. At the end of the passageway, they reached another door, also without a lock. Approximately fifty-five yards in. The steps up were wooden and led to a structure similar to the pool shed. Wood-planked and cramped. They emerged out onto one of the docks inside the cavernous boathouse.

“Pretty neat, eh?” Franklin said. “They had wheelbarrows they’d trundle the bootleg whiskey in. It’s also how my great-grandfather smuggled in his girlfriend.”

“His girlfriend?”

“An actress called Ariel Sawyer. She was big early on in the silent era. She was the girlfriend of a notorious gangster named Hugh Gant. Great-granddad was seeing her on the sly. That’s what the tunnel was for—not the booze. The booze came in by boat, and they could have just as easily carted it along the paths. It’s a private island—who’d see them? But he couldn’t take a chance with Ariel.

“The tunnel looks jerry-rigged, but it’s not. There’s actually a sophisticated construction, the way the floors are slanted, places to catch runoff—architecturally, it’s quite brilliant. When you consider that this is an island in Florida, built-up or not. We don’t use these tunnels now, except as an alternate escape route for the president or vice president when they’re staying here.”

Landry eyeballed the boathouse, in case he needed to come here again. He did not have a photographic memory, but he’d trained himself to observe quickly and thoroughly. He looked for places where he could ambush someone or places where someone could ambush him, places where he could see and yet not be seen. He looked for cover. He looked for concealment. He looked for places to escape if he had to. And here it was: an official escape route for the president.

The boathouse had an old fish camp feel. Distinctly Southern. “Let’s go back,” he said.

When they got back to the pool shed, Franklin said, “Wait until you see this.” He motioned Landry over to a shelf which held more pool accessories and pushed aside a case of shock treatment bags. Set into the wood at the back of the shelf was a window. Landry looked in at the cabana they’d just left. From this vantage point he could see the bed, the small dinette, the couches covered with throw pillows.

“One-way glass,” Frank said. “Like the cops use. Used to be just a little hole, discreetly placed. But somewhere along the line came the upgrade. No one’s supposed to know about this,” he added.

“No one?”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure everyone knows. At least the immediate family.” Franklin looked at his watch. “Time to rock and roll.”

As Jolie entered the house after her run, she spotted the light blinking on her phone. It was Kevin Moran, the FBI special agent she’d worked with on a kidnapping a few years ago. Another friend of Danny’s. Kevin was an ideal special agent; he was eminently self-contained. She wondered, though, how much he liked working this area, where very little happened.

Of course, plenty was happening now. Jolie had a feeling it would only get worse, not better. Whatever she was stuck into, it was like swimming in the pond. You had no idea what else was in there with you.

When she reached him she said, “So, you think you can help me?”

“Probably not.”

“I heard the FBI was investigating Luke Perdue even before the Starliner Motel.”

“Chilly this morning, don’t you think?”

It was nothing of the kind. “Okay, so maybe that’s not true about the FBI watching Luke. But it
would
stand to reason, since the FBI was involved in the hostage situation, there would be an investigation after the standoff at the Starliner Motel.”

“Then again, we do live in a tropical climate.”

“In fact, if you guys were any good, you’d dispatch someone immediately to his home address.”

“Warmer. Let me go turn the fan on.”

“Did the FBI go to Luke’s house?”

“It’s possible. Probable, even.”

“To interview Mrs. Frawley?”

“You’d think.”

“Did they collect evidence?”

“That would be a negative.”

“So you’re saying it was just Gardenia PD? They were the only ones who collected evidence?”

“You have any idea how hot it is here? I’m loosening my tie as we speak.”

“So the FBI has no evidence from Luke Perdue? Not even, say, a cell phone?”

“Gotta open a window. It’s like an oven in here.”

“No cell phone? You sure? You talked to the agents involved?”

“Look, I’ve got an appointment in a couple of minutes.”

Jolie pushed through. “I understand that Special Agent Belvedere was the secondary during the hostage negotiation.”

“Not my jurisdiction. Sorry.”

“Special Agent Frederick Belvedere—that’s what I hear. He worked with Chief Akers.”

He said nothing.

“I wish I could talk to him. Clear up a couple of things.”

“Well, what do you know? They finally put the air-conditioning on in here.”

“Just a couple of things. Yes or no. We could even play twenty questions.”

“It’s getting
frigid
in here.”

“Couldn’t you ask him, just in case he’s feeling talkative?”

A pause. And then, “No promises.”

“Sounds like a warm front’s coming in.”

“Time will tell,” he said, and hung up.

The phone rang again immediately. Jolie thought it was Agent Moran calling back. But it was Skeet.

“What are you doing today?”

“Not much.”

“Then why don’t you come down to the office? Say, half an hour.”

Skeet Mullins asked, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He sat at his desk, feet up, and swiveled on his office chair, back and forth, squeak-squeak-squeak. Annoying as hell, but Jolie was used to it. “What do I think I’m doing?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

On the drive over, Jolie had tried to figure out how much Skeet knew about her activities, and she came to the conclusion that Detective Jeter of Panama City Beach PD might have called and left a message with Louis. That was the logical assumption, so she went with it. She gave him her most mystified look. “Do you mean going to Panama City? I didn’t know going to Panama City was a problem.”

“Panama City?”

“I was there yesterday. Is that a problem?”

Now Skeet was the one to look mystified. His mystification was a lot more convincing than hers. Either he was acting, or he didn’t know about Detective Jeter or the missing Nathan Dial.

“Are you moonlighting for the state police?”

“No.”

“Well, you act like it. Last I heard, the hostage situation at the Starliner Motel was the FDLE’s case. So what were you doing questioning anyone, period? What part of ‘paid leave’ don’t you understand?”

So that was it? When she’d gone into the neighborhood behind the Starliner Motel, she must have offended someone with her questions. Maybe Mark’s parents didn’t like her talking to him.

Skeet dropped his feet and leaned forward. “You’re on leave pending the conclusion of an investigation into an officer-involved shooting concerning a reckless discharge of a firearm. You cannot represent this department, you cannot go out there playing detective like you’re Nancy Drew.”

That hurt. When Jolie was a stars-in-her-eyes rookie in the sheriff’s office, she had expressed her desire to become a detective. Skeet started referring to her as Nancy Drew. Behind her back, but she’d heard about it.

“You are to cease and desist until the officer-involved shooting investigation is over. Am I clear?”

“Yessir.”

“Because if you keep it up, if you continue to flaunt this department’s regulations, the
state’s
regulations, you
will
be summarily fired.”

Just then—of course—her phone chirped.

“What’s that?” demanded Skeet.

Jolie checked the readout. “It’s my neighbor. I bet you my cat got out again.”

“Well, now you’ll have plenty of time to take care of things like that,” Skeet said.

The minute Jolie was outside the building, she took out her phone. She punched in the number of her caller as she walked to the car.

“This is Special Agent Belvedere,” he said without preamble. “You wanted to talk to me?”

Jolie told him what she wanted to know. It didn’t take long, because she knew she wouldn’t get much.

“I can’t talk about that.”

“I don’t mean specifically. Just generally. Your general impression.”

Silence. At least he didn’t hang up. Jolie added quickly, “As little or as much as you would like. I just want to know your observations regarding the subject, Luke Perdue.”

“This is part of your investigation into Chief Akers’s death? That’s a little far afield, isn’t it?”

As her Irish grandmother would say, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I know, but it’s important to know what his state of mind was.”

“The chief’s, or Luke Perdue’s?”

“Both.”

Another pause. Then Special Agent Belvedere said, “If you’re talking about Chief Akers, I heard suicide was ruled out.”

“It hasn’t been ruled out.” Another lie. For a brief crystallizing moment, Jolie realized just how far off the reservation she’d strayed. “You can see why Chief Akers’s state of mind would be affected by the outcome of the hostage negotiation.”

“Damn rumor mill. Okay, I’ll only say this once, just to characterize the situation. And I insist you
do not
repeat this. The subject—Perdue—gave us all the signals that he would surrender.”

“Surrender? You sure of that?”

“I’ve been in hostage negotiation for fifteen years. It was only a matter of time.”

“Are you saying he wanted to be taken into custody?”

“No. I’m saying he was
desperate
to be taken into custody.”

“You were pretty sure he would have released Kathy Westbrook and surrendered himself to the authorities?”

“Not pretty sure. Positive. I hope this helps.” Jolie could almost hear him check his watch. “I’m late for an appointment. Are we through here?”

“Yes, we’re through.”

He said, “It’s too bad.”

“Too bad?”

“I know how I felt when it ended the way it did. You can bet Chief Akers felt the same. It could have affected his state of mind.”

“That’s what we think,” Jolie lied.

“Good talking to you, and now I really have to go.”

As she closed the phone, Jolie heard a car door slam and footsteps approaching. She looked up and there was Kay.

Kay crossed her arms over her chest. “I want to show you something.”

Her voice was too high, and her face looked pinched.

“Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Her nostrils flared, and white lines bracketed her mouth. “Oh, you could say that.”

“Kay—”

“Would you
come
with me?”

“Is Zoe all right?”

“Like you care.”

“What’s this about?”

“It won’t take up much of your time. I
promise
.” Kay stalked to her Navigator, her shoes ticking on the pavement. Turned back when Jolie didn’t follow. “If you were ever my friend, ever my friend at
all
, you’d come with me.”

No choice. Jolie got in and Kay swerved out of the parking lot.

On the road Jolie asked, “You want to tell me where we’re going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

They went east on Highway 98. Jolie tried to figure out what had Kay up in arms, but the only thing she could think of was her talk with Zoe. Would Zoe go running to her mother, just because Jolie asked her about Luke’s last night with Riley?

Unlikely. Zoe would have to be a real pushover to tell her mother every little thing. But something had made Kay like this. The tight lips, the whiteness around her nose and mouth, her designer sunglasses blocking Jolie out.

In Port St. Joe, they turned onto Fifth Street and Jolie guessed where they were headed. Her parents’ house. The one that was on the market. Jolie had no idea why, but she could feel the tension, feel the anger about to spill over. It scared her. She thought that maybe Kay was this close to flying into a rage.

In front of the house, Kay slammed the car into park. The air conditioner was like a fog, clinging to Jolie’s face as she looked past the windshield at the shabby yellow cottage. “Would you mind telling me what this is about?”

Kay turned to look at her. Unseeable behind the large Dolce & Gabbanas. “I should have known better. You spoil everything you touch. You use people, Jolie. I tried to build a relationship with you, and you just used me to get what you wanted.”

“What are you talking about?” But Jolie knew that on some level what Kay said was true. She did use people. That was part of her job, and she was good at it. But always it was for a righteous cause. She’d been right to browbeat Zoe. That was what this was about. She’d hurt Zoe’s feelings. Zoe had run to her mother. But what hung in the balance? The death of a young man. A cover-up. The potential abuse of power going to the highest levels of the United States government. Her family’s complicity—

“My own daughter won’t speak to me.”

“Why? Because I asked her a few questions?”

“Riley kicked her out last night. She cut her dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re
sorry
! Like that means anything. Zoe’s heartbroken. This was her
best friend
! She was escorted off the property like a common criminal, all because of you!”

Wait a minute
. There were a lot of things wrong here. Jolie wanted to defend herself. Why had Zoe told Riley anything at all, if she knew it would upset her? Why was Riley so angry? Surely Kay could see the relationship was abusive, if Riley could go off the deep end like that. All sorts of thoughts crowded through her mind. But what she said was, “Why are we here?”

“Because it’s time you knew the truth.”

“The truth?”

Kay pulled the keys out of the ignition. “Yes, the truth.”

Jolie followed Kay up the walk to the house. There had been a garden, but no one had kept it up and the plants were yellowed and sickly. A squat garden gnome stood by the door, jolly and sinister at the same time. Jolie remembered the long crack in the front window, like a graph line. “Kay, I came here already.”

Kay punched a code into the Realtor’s lock on the front door, and they went inside. “You go ahead,” Kay said.

At that moment, Jolie felt she could be in danger. As a cop, she had a sense for that moment when things changed, and this was one of those moments. “No, you go ahead.”

Kay did.

When Skeet summoned her to his office this morning, Jolie had left her replacement firearm behind. She didn’t want to get into a fight with him over it, in light of the fact that her service weapon had been confiscated. But she still had her Walther PPK .380 in an ankle holster. It would be a little harder to access, but she was glad for the backup.