by Bill H Myers
I made the call and he said if we wanted to see it right away, he'd meet us at the building where the equipment was stored. He gave us the address and we headed in that direction.
On the way, I asked Erin how she wanted to play it. Did we want to act like we were interested or did we just want to ask questions?
She smiled and said, “It was a man who answered, right? How old did he sound?”
I shrugged. “I don't know, maybe in his forties?”
“Good, let me do the talking. Men usually will talk more openly to a woman.”
She was probably right. I knew that on many occasions I had given up a lot of personal information to women, simply because they'd asked. The kind of info I would never give a man.
It took us about twenty minutes to get to the building where the video gaming gear was stored. I was surprised to see it was a real business in a retail store-front. According to the large graphic on the plate glass window overlooking the sidewalk, the place was called “GameTastic.”
A sign on the door said, “Closed.”
We got out of the car, Erin leading the way. When we reached the door with the closed sign, a man from inside came out to greet us. He looked to be in his mid-forties, slightly overweight, balding with a Fu Manchu. He was wearing a Call of Duty Black Ops tee-shirt.
He smiled when he saw Erin and welcomed her in. I followed. He looked at me and asked, “You a cop?”
I shook my head. “What do you think?”
He smiled. “You're dressed like a cop. Your car looks like a cop car. So you probably are one. Are you here on business or is this about the gaming gear?”
Before I could answer, Erin stepped up to him and said, “I'm Donnely, he's Walker. Your name is?”
The man tweaked one of his whiskers, looked around and said. “Look, we operate on the up and up here. Nothing illegal is going on.”
Erin smiled again. “Don’t worry; we're not investigating you or your business. I just need your name so I can include it in my report.”
The man looked at her and mumbled out, “Ian. Ian Perez.”
She wrote the name in her notepad. “Ian, we're looking for someone who may have been interested in buying your equipment. His name is Waldo. Waldo Raines. Sound familiar?”
Ian nodded. “Yeah, I know him. Big talker. But when it came time to put money on the table, he bailed. You know how I can reach him?”
Erin smiled. “I was going to ask you the same thing. Seems the last phone number we had on him goes unanswered. When was the last time you heard from him?”
Ian shook his head. “Two months ago. He said he wanted everything in the store. Even said he wanted to rent the space. We agreed on a price, he signed a sales contract, and then he didn't show. I figured something had come up and he'd get back to me, but he never did.
“I called and called and never got an answer. I left voice mails, sent him text messages, even drove around looking for his car. But I never found him. So, thirty days later, I tore up the contract and put the listing back on Craigslist. If you catch up with him, tell him the deal's off.”
Erin nodded. “We'll do that. And thanks for talking with us. Good luck selling the video gear. Looks like a great opportunity for someone.”
Ian nodded. “It is. Maybe even for you. Come back when you get off, and I'll show you around.”
Erin smiled and said, “Maybe I will. But I'll have to ask my husband first.”
She turned and we headed back to the car. As soon as we got in, I asked, “Your husband? You're married? Really?”
She laughed and said, “I was married once. Didn't work out. He was the wrong guy and I was the wrong woman. It happens. Same with you, right?”
I nodded and quickly changed the subject. “So, where to next?”
She didn’t have to think about it. “First we eat lunch then we call the number on the business card we found in Waldo's bathroom. Maybe we'll get lucky.”
Chapter Forty-Four
Erin was driving. She headed north on Dixie Highway for a mile then pulled into the parking lot of a Chick-fil-A. The line at the drive-thru was long, but dressed as we were, she felt we probably should stay in the car. Didn't want to risk going inside and having real cops see us. They might wonder what we were up to and ask questions we didn’t want to answer.
The line moved quicker than expected and when it was our time to order, Erin went with the bacon BBQ sandwich and I got the grilled chicken club. We both ordered iced tea.
Ten minutes later, with our orders in hand, we parked in the Home Depot lot behind Chick-fil-A. I was pretty hungry and finished my sandwich first. Erin was only halfway through hers when she saw me shove my sandwich wrappings back into the empty Chick-fil-A bag.
She finished chewing, pointed to my phone and said, “Check Zillow. See if you can find a six-plex that was recently sold in Saint Augustine. If it was ever listed on the MLS, it should still show up there.”
I brought up Google on my phone, went to Zillow and entered Saint Augustine as the area I wanted to search. Entering the keyword “six-plex”, Zillow returned four listings.
Three of them were still available, and one showed “under contract”. I clicked the map icon for it and saw that it was right off A1A, about four miles south of the Home Depot parking lot.
I showed the listing to Erin. “Think we should drop by, see if Waldo is there?”
With sandwich in hand, she shook her head and said, “Not until I finish eating.”
A few minutes later, we were on our way to the address Zillow had shown for the six-plex. It took us south, away from old town, down MLK Avenue. Just before we reached Eddie Vicker's Park, Google had us take a left. The six-plex was three doors down on our right.
Even though the street was narrow, several cars, including a few that looked abandoned, were parked on the grass in front of an older two-story home. A sign out front read, “Apartment for Rent.”
Erin pulled over onto the grass on the opposite side of the street and asked, “What do you think?”
I shook my head. “It's not the kind of place I'd buy. But maybe Waldo thought differently. You want me to go see if anyone in there knows him?”
She nodded. “Better you than me.”
I got out of the car and walked the broken concrete path that led to the front door. Brown and blue tarps in the yard covered several randomly placed boats and cars. Probably all needing work.
When I got to the front door, I started to knock but was met by a young woman with a hardened face. She looked me over and asked, “You a cop?”
“No, I'm looking for Waldo.”
She asked again. “You're a cop, right? You're dressed like a cop. You got a cop's haircut.”
I pointed across the street to the car we had rolled up in. “Does that look like a cop car to you?”
She nodded. “Yeah, it does. Who'd you say you were looking for?”
“Waldo. Waldo Raines. I'm wondering if he is the new owner of this place.”
She thought for a moment then said, “Ain't no one around here named Waldo. If there was, I'd remember him. The new owner's name is Francis. Not sure what her last name is.”
She looked across the street at Raif's car. “If you're not cops, why you pretending to be?”
Instead of answering her question, I said, “Have a good day,” and headed back to the car where Erin was waiting.
When I got in, she asked, “Learn anything?”
I shook my head and pointed to the woman I’d spoken to. She was still at the front door, watching us. “She said the new owner's name is Francis. She's never heard of Waldo.”
Erin frowned. “You believe her?”
“I do. She didn't flinch when I mentioned his name. Nothing in the way she reacted would suggest she'd ever met him.”
Erin took a deep breath. “It doesn't look like the kind of place Waldo would be interested in. It's certainly not a ground-floor opportunity.”
She started the car and ret
raced our route until she got us back on business one. When we reached the bridge at A1A, she took a right toward Anastasia. About a mile later, she pulled into a Circle K and parked at the gas pumps. She turned to me and said, “Fill her up.”
While I was pumping gas, she went inside. A few minutes later, she returned with a small plastic bag and got into the car on the driver's side. When I finished filling the tank, I slid in on the passenger side.
She handed me an antibacterial wipe and said, “Use this. Never know what diseases might be hiding on that pump handle.”
She was probably right. The person who pumped before me could have had an infectious disease or drugs or some other nasty thing on their hands and it could have transferred to the pump handle and then to me. I used the wipe and said, “Thanks.”
Instead of pulling out of the Circle K, Erin pulled into a parking spot to the right of the building. She got out her phone and brought up her photo gallery. She pointed to the picture of the business card we had found under the tissues in Waldo's bathroom and said, “I'm going to call this guy. He's a Realtor and maybe he remembers giving Waldo his card.”
She made the call and I listened as she spoke into her phone.
“Yes, I'd like to speak to Matthew Phillips about a property he has listed.”
“If you're sure, I can meet him there in twenty minutes.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
She ended the call and turned to me. “He's out of the office at an open house. The receptionist said he would be there until four and if we needed to talk to him, going there would be the best way. You up for it?”
I was, but I wanted to stop by the RV first. “Let’s stop in and see how Bob's doing. We're only a few miles away. Then we can go see the guy.”
Erin put the car in gear and we headed back to Anastasia State Park. When we got there, the ranger at the entry station saw we had the camping receipt taped to the windshield and waved us through. Two minutes later, we pulled up to the RV.
The people who had been camping in the space next to us were gone. Their trailer had been replaced by a large tent. Six college-age males were outside, drinking beer. Their music was loud but at least it was classic rock. Could have been a lot worse.
When we went into the RV, Bob was waiting for us at the door. He meowed once, letting us know he was happy we were back. I bent down to pet him, but he wasn't interested in getting pets from me. He wanted to be next to Erin, who had taken a seat on the couch.
He trotted over, tail high, and jumped up next to her. He rubbed his big head against her leg then eased into her lap. She immediately began stroking his back, and I could hear his deep purr from where I was standing.
Looking at them both, I decided it was an image worth keeping. I pulled out my phone and shot a few photos. I got the first one before Erin realized what I was doing. After that, she made a face each time I held my phone in her direction.
I took the pictures anyway.
I loosened the tie I'd been wearing since early that morning and asked, “Do I really need to wear this all day? The guy we're going to see probably won't care how we're dressed. We don't need to impress him.”
Erin nodded. “You're probably right. Change if you want to.”
I went to the back bedroom and changed into a pair of tan cargo shorts and a light blue button-up fishing shirt from Bealls. I didn't think I'd have to be dressing like a cop again but was worried that Erin might be upset if I just piled the cop outfit on the floor. I went to the closet, grabbed a hanger and hung the pants on it. I put the shirt over the pants and put the jacket over the shirt. As a final touch, I draped the tie around the neck of the jacket.
If I had added a balloon to the top of the hanger, from a distance it might have looked like a real person. One without much of a lower body. Just empty pants legs hanging down.
When I went back up front, Erin was standing in the living room in her bra and panties. Her cop outfit was piled up on the floor. Bob was lying on top of it.
She saw me and said, “You're not supposed to be looking. You're supposed to be back there changing clothes. You sure were quick about it.”
I nodded. “I've had a lot of practice, it doesn't take me long. But here's the question. Since your clothes are in your bag in the back, how did you plan to get by me without me seeing you in your underwear? Or did you do that on purpose?”
She shook her head and said, “You're a prevert, you know that?”
I laughed. Her uncle Raif had misspoken the word the same way. Prevert instead of pervert. I was pretty sure I was neither, but I didn't mind looking at Erin standing in my living room in just her bra and panties.
She pushed her way past me, muttered the word “prevert” again, and headed to the bedroom to put some clothes on. It made me a bit sad. I preferred her the other way. Unclothed.
Chapter Forty-Five
When Erin came back up front, she was wearing dark blue shorts and a white button-up shirt and no longer looked like a cop. Instead, she looked like the kind of person any man would be happy to talk to.
She looked at me and said, “Take a picture, it'll last longer.”
I pulled out my phone and shot several photos. The first one was the best; the rest had her giving me the middle finger salute while making faces.
When I put my phone away, she said, “If you're through fooling around, we have an open house to get to. You ready?”
I was.
Since Erin knew the streets of Saint Augustine and I didn't, she drove. I didn't mind. I kind of liked being chauffeured around by a beautiful woman. It was something I could get used to.
Ten minutes after leaving the RV, we reached the open house. Not wanting to block the seller's driveway, we parked at the curb and got ready to go in. Erin unbuttoned another button on her shirt, revealing intriguing cleavage. She pointed at me and said, “You know the drill. I do the talking. You just listen.”
I nodded. If she wanted to do all the work, I was totally on board. It would give me time to admire her shirt, or what was peeking out from under it.
As we walked toward the house, a young couple with a baby came out followed by an older man wearing a silk shirt and casual slacks. He was saying, “If you folks change your mind, just let me know.”
After the young couple passed us by, the man, whom we presumed to be the real estate agent we were looking for, smiled and said, “Come on in, folks. Let me show you around.”
Erin went in first, I followed. The man introduced himself as Matthew Phillips and asked us to enter our names on the sign-in sheet. It wasn't an unusual request. Most agents want to get the contact info of the people who visit the open houses they hold. It gives them a list of potential buyers and sellers they can reach out to later.
Erin ignored his request; instead, she said, “Mr. Phillips, we're not here to look at your house. We're looking for a friend who has gone missing. Waldo Raines.
“We found your business card in his home and wondered if you remember talking to him.”
Phillips smiled broadly at her and said, “Call me Matt. No one calls me mister, it's too formal. I want us to be friends.”
We both smiled. Erin stretched, revealing just a bit more cleavage. “That's good to know, Matt. When we get ready to buy a house, we'll come see you first.
“But right now, we're trying to find our friend. Do you remember talking to him?”
Matt smiled again and said, “Normally, I don't share information about the contacts I’ve made. It's not good for business. But for a pretty lady like you, I'll make an exception. If I've talked to him, it'll be in my notes.”
He walked to a nearby table, picked up his iPad and tapped in Waldo's name. A few swipes later, he turned to Erin and said, “Here it is. Two months ago, he came in looking to buy an investment property.
“Said he needed something with good cash flow but nothing to do with food. I wasn't sure why he mentioned food, but that's what he said.
“I went through the
MLS and found several commercial properties that might work for him. I showed him the photos along with the details. Some of the places were pretty good deals, but he wasn't interested in any of them.
“He told me he needed owner financing. He said he could make a big down payment but wouldn't be able to get a bank loan, so if the owner wouldn't finance it, he wouldn't be a buyer.
“I told him there weren't many properties in the area with owner financing. Most of those that have it don't show up on the MLS.
“After I explained this, he gave me his phone number and said to call if I found anything that would work for him.
“Later that evening, I got a call from an old friend. A man in his eighties. He told me he was getting too old to work and wanted to sell all his real estate holdings. Three houses, a duplex, and a ratty motor court.
“I took down the information about each of the properties, and when we got to the motel, he told me all about it. He said it was built in the fifties and hadn't been updated since. It was a one-story block building with ten guest rooms and a front office with an apartment for the manager. All the rooms had window air, old-style TVs, and a few had coin-operated vibrating beds. The rooms had no heat and the only view was of the parking lot. There was no pool. Just an outdoor fountain near the office.
“He went on to tell me that he had bought the place in the seventies, hired a manager, and let it ride. After expenses, it made a small profit every month, more than enough to keep him happy.
“But as the place got older, it was hard to attract new guests and hard to keep them once they saw the conditions of the rooms. With rising insurance rates and climbing property tax, the little motel started losing money.
“The manager was having a hard time finding nightly guests, so he started renting the rooms out on a weekly basis. When he did, the quality of the clientele took a nosedive. The only people he could attract were those down on their luck who couldn't afford anywhere else—or were running from the law.
“After too many visits from building inspectors telling him he needed to fix the place up or shut it down, he decided it wasn't worth spending a ton of money on it. So he boarded up the windows, turned off the utilities, and let it sit. That was six years ago. It's been empty since.