by Ben Rehder
“You didn’t attempt to render any first aid?”
“Nope. He could’ve been bluffing. The gun was within his reach.”
“You didn’t touch the weapon?”
See? Questions designed to make you contradict yourself.
“Didn’t get anywhere close to it. Like I said, I stayed where I was, at the corner.”
He paused for a moment. Trying to decide what angle to take next.
“Any idea where your neighbor is?” he asked.
“Which one?”
“The one on the side where you shot the guy. We knocked on the door several times and nobody answered.”
He was hoping to find a witness—someone who could confirm or counter my story. He wasn’t going to find one.
“That’s Regina,” I said. “She’s out in Big Bend right now.”
“She live alone?”
“Yes.”
“What about you?”
“My girlfriend—my fiancé—and I live together. She’s in Miami Beach.”
He nodded slowly. He was a very deliberate man who chose his words and questions carefully.
“Any idea who the man tonight was?” he asked.
“None. You got an ID on him?”
“We’re working on it. Can’t even speculate who it was?”
He might’ve already identified the man. He wouldn’t necessarily share that with me.
“I’m not a fan of making wild guesses,” I said.
“Humor me.”
“No offense, but I’d rather not.”
He continued to ask questions, many of them similar to questions he’d already asked, for another thirty minutes. All of the questions were specific to the shooting itself and the minutes before and after it. At one point I checked my watch and saw that it was nearly five in the morning, and by then I was tempted to get up and leave. After all, I was free to go whenever I wanted. But, again, it was better for me to cooperate in this situation, in order to cultivate a decent ongoing relationship with the police.
He finally widened the scope of his questioning. “You think this guy tonight had anything to do with the armed man you encountered on your porch a few nights ago?”
So he’d been filled in on that. He’d probably had a conversation with Billy Chang, the detective assigned to that case, before this interview. Woke Chang up in the middle of the night and got the lowdown.
“Possibly,” I said, “although ‘encountered’ doesn’t quite do it justice. I prefer the word ‘accosted.’”
He grinned for my benefit. “What’s the story on that?”
“Well, that’s a good question, Randy, but that’s a long story, so before I start, you mind if I take a leak?”
17
I was buying myself a few minutes to make a decision.
If the armed man tonight was connected to the Jankowski/Armbruster case—and he probably was—how much should I tell Wolfe? I decided the answer was all of it. Time to dump it into his lap and let him take it from there. Meanwhile, I could move on with my life. In fact, by moving on, perhaps Jankowski would stop sending armed men after me. If I wasn’t poking around in his business, he wouldn’t see me as a threat. Right?
So, when we both returned to the interview room, I spent a solid thirty minutes telling Wolfe everything, starting with a more detailed explanation of what I did for a living and why some of the people I put under surveillance might want to harm me.
Then I gave him the specifics of the Armbruster case and the questions it raised:
Where was Armbruster going when he was struck by Jankowski’s vehicle?
Where did Armbruster get the money for the new Alfa Romeo?
Why didn’t Jankowski want to admit he’d had a dash cam in his SUV? Had the camera simply failed to record the accident, or was there more to it? Had he hit Armbruster on purpose?
What was the significance of Armbruster’s visit to Brandi Sloan’s house? Did they know each other? Were they scamming Jankowski together?
When I reached the part about hearing a familiar voice outside of Jankowski’s office and identifying that person as Damon Tate, I fudged a bit. I said Tate sounded like the man who’d pulled a gun on me, but I couldn’t be sure, and maybe I was letting my imagination get the best of me. I waffled because if I’d known Tate was the man from my porch, the cops could give me some serious grief for failing to report what I’d learned.
Likewise, I made no mention of having attached a GPS tracker to Armbruster’s car, because I don’t like sharing information that implicates me in a crime. I’m funny that way.
Wolfe was taking notes, but he hadn’t asked any questions yet.
So I continued, telling him about my interview with Claudia Klein, the woman whose stolen gun had been used against me by the man on my porch, and I revealed that Lennox Armbruster had lived next door to her. Coincidence? No way.
It also wasn’t a coincidence that Armbruster had nearly been killed two days ago in a wreck.
Or that a black GMC truck had been harassing him. Or that I’d been tailed by two men in a black GMC truck yesterday.
Wolfe listened and took detailed notes, and that indicated that the prowler tonight was probably, or at least possibly, tied into the Armbruster case. If he were unconnected—if he were simply a random burglar or psychopath, for instance—Wolfe wouldn’t concern himself with any of this stuff. A detective couldn’t afford to be distracted or sidetracked by unrelated cases.
So I asked him, “Know the name Brent Donovan?”
“Not off the top of my head,” Wolfe said.
“He was a construction worker for JMJ who went missing after he tried to stage an accident on a job site. He still hasn’t been found. I think the official APD conclusion is that he’s fleeing prosecution, but from what I know, he’s not smart enough to pull that off. Even his mother agrees. I talked to her yesterday.”
I could tell this was news to Wolfe, but obviously he couldn’t be familiar with every case APD handled.
“You think Jankowski did something to him?” Wolfe asked.
“I think somebody did,” I said. “And Jankowski had a pretty good motive.”
“What was the motive, if Donovan’s scam had been exposed?”
“Revenge,” I said. “Jankowski is a hothead. Talk to him and that becomes obvious in about five minutes. He’s the kind of guy who would want to teach Donovan a lesson.”
“And you’re thinking the same thing is true with Armbruster? Jankowski thought it was a scam—Armbruster jumped in front of his SUV on purpose—and Jankowski decided to have him killed?”
I couldn’t tell if Wolfe was buying into my theory or not. He was probably still gauging my credibility.
“Seems like a reasonable possibility,” I said, “depending on who was driving the black GMC truck. And this may be unrelated, but that receptionist I mentioned earlier, Brandi Sloan—the last I knew, nobody could find her. She didn’t show up for work yesterday morning. Dispatch sent an officer out to her place for a welfare check and she wasn’t home. Armbruster was over at her place three nights ago, and now he’s in the hospital and she’s missing. What would you conclude from that?”
It was a rhetorical question, but even if it weren’t, Wolfe wouldn’t have answered.
Instead, he said, “Excuse me for a minute.” He got up and left the interview room, closing the door behind him.
I waited patiently. Mia had not called or texted me back, but it was still early in Miami and she was probably sleeping.
Wolfe came back six minutes later. I’m guessing he had used that time to instruct someone to look into the Brandi Sloan situation. See if she had been located. He had two cans of Dr Pepper with him, one of which he set in front of me. I popped the top and took a long dri
nk as Wolfe got settled into his chair.
“Let’s say you’re right about all this,” Wolfe said. “If you’re trying to help Jankowksi out of a fraud situation, why is he sending men after you with guns? That’s your theory, right?”
He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from me—to have it on record.
“Because he’s afraid I’ll find out what really happened to Brent Donovan and Lennox Armbruster and perhaps Brandi Sloan. If he did anything to any of those people, he doesn’t want anyone looking into it. At this point, hitting Armbruster with his car is the least of his worries, even if he did it on purpose.”
“Do you have evidence for anything you’re suggesting?” he asked.
“Just my razor-sharp instincts,” I said.
“It’s all circumstantial at this point,” he said.
“Want me to beat a confession out of someone?” I asked.
“What I want you to do is tell me more about hearing Damon Tate outside Jankowski’s office.”
“What would you like to know?”
“How certain were you that he was the man who tried to abduct you on your front porch?”
“Not certain at all. I just noted that the voice sounded very similar, but I knew I’d need more to determine if it was him or not.”
That’s known as fudging.
“So what else did you do to find out?”
“Like I said earlier, I got his license plate and identified him, and then I followed him to a job site on Burnet Road, which is how I confirmed that he was a JMJ employee. Beyond that, I did nothing.”
I was positive the man I’d shot a few hours earlier was not Damon Tate, but maybe my perceptions had been altered by fear and adrenaline. Maybe it had been him, which would explain Wolfe’s focused interest.
“You never approached him. Never talked to him?” Wolfe asked.
“Nope.”
“Never did anything to let him know you knew what he’d done?”
“I didn’t know he’d done anything,” I said.
“Any idea if he saw you tailing him?”
“I don’t think he did, but I guess anything is possible.”
“Did you confront Joe Jankowski about his connection to Damon Tate?”
“Actually, I went to his office yesterday morning to do exactly that, but I discovered Brandi Sloan was missing and decided to hold off. Why all this interest in Tate? Was it him that I shot?”
I could tell Wolfe was wavering. Some investigators would withhold that information until they’d done their best to verify my statements and determine if I was being totally forthcoming. I believe I had earned Wolfe’s trust by this point, or perhaps he wanted to see my reaction. Seasoned investigators could learn a lot from expressions and body language.
He stared at me for a long moment, then said, “His name is Nathaniel Tate. Damon Tate’s younger brother.”
Oof. A punch to the stomach. I let that sink in for a moment. “I can tell you right now that I had no interaction with him whatsoever. I never even knew he existed until now.”
Wolfe didn’t need me to lead him to the obvious conclusion—that Damon Tate had sent his brother after me.
“I assume you checked Damon’s record at some point?” Wolfe asked.
“Of course I did. Needed to know who I was dealing with—if it was him on my front porch.”
“Then you won’t be surprised to know that that kind of behavior runs in the family. Nathaniel is even worse, actually. Both of them are bad dudes.”
“You said is and are,” I pointed out.
“He’s alive. But you did some serious damage to him.”
“How bad? Is he going to live?”
“Probably. He might be paralyzed from the waist down. Piece of buckshot grazed his spinal cord. The doctors don’t know yet how it will affect him.”
I felt more relief than I expected. Don’t know why. Nathaniel Tate had been trying to murder me, but I was glad I hadn’t killed him. Not just because he could be questioned and perhaps become a witness, but because I didn’t want a death on my hands. Even a justified one. And if he survived, perhaps Damon Tate wouldn’t come after me seeking an eye for an eye.
Or maybe he would anyway. Maybe I couldn’t move on with my life just yet after all.
18
At 4:17 that afternoon, Mia exited the secure area on the second floor and came down the escalator toward baggage claim. I could hardly contain myself, waiting on the lower floor by a stone pillar, but I have to admit the anticipation was half the fun. Her eyes were searching for me, jumping from person to person, and when she was halfway down, she spotted me and began to smile. I grinned back as my heart melted. Damn. I hoped that I would always appreciate how she made me feel and never take moments like this for granted.
We had agreed earlier, on the phone, that we wouldn’t discuss Joe Jankowski or the Tate brothers or any of that stuff until tomorrow. I’d already updated her by phone after my interview with Wolfe, but we still needed to discuss how—and if—we were going to respond to the situation. But that could come later. Tomorrow.
She reached the bottom of the escalator and began to stride across the marble floor. I stayed right where I was, knowing the pillar would give us a tiny bit of privacy.
“Wow,” I said as she got close. “Check the tan. If it’s possible, you’re even hotter than—”
She pressed her lips against mine and kissed me hard, wrapping her arms around my neck. I encircled her waist and kissed her right back.
It was intense. Almost too much.
Finally she stopped for a moment and said, “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you, too,” I said. “But if you keep that up, I’m gonna have to hide behind this pole for a while.”
“Which pole are you talking about?” she whispered into my ear.
“Oh, man,” I said. “We’d better grab your luggage and get out of here before there’s an incident.”
We went home, straight to the bedroom, and spent the next two hours doing many of the things I’d been daydreaming about in her absence. Yet again, I found myself reveling in the fact that such a beautiful woman—such a caring, giving woman—was willing to hop into bed with a guy like me.
Now we were lying quietly, enjoying the late afternoon. She had one arm draped over my chest, with her head resting on my shoulder.
“At the risk of repeating myself,” I said, “your body is ridiculous.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean, seriously. Do you realize what you look like? Ever seen yourself in a mirror?”
She nuzzled in closer. “You’re sweet. You have a few physical attributes of your own that I happen to appreciate.”
“Stop it. I’m swooning.”
“Your elbows, for instance. They are totally hot.”
“I exfoliate. And I use cocoa butter.”
“It shows.”
“It’s a strict regimen invented by George Clooney.”
“He never said a word about it the last time we were in bed together,” she said.
“Well, if he experienced what I just experienced, he was probably speechless.”
“Nice,” she said.
The weather outside was gorgeous, but I didn’t risk opening the bedroom window—not solely because I’d dealt with two armed intruders on the property in the past few days, but because I didn’t want Mia to start thinking about what had happened right outside that window. There was probably still blood on the grass.
“So I take it you enjoyed Miami Beach,” I said. “Did you young ladies behave yourselves?”
“More or less.
“More or less?”
“Well, I did.”
“But the others?”
�
��Let’s just say we all had a great time.”
“Some hijinks going on?”
“I’ll never tell. Nobody did anything they shouldn’t have done.”
“Then how did you have fun?”
“We are mature adults. You should try it.”
“Somebody must’ve gotten wild. I bet it was Dianne, that little harlot.”
“Dianne is dating Clint, and they’re serious. And she’s not a harlot!”
“Then it was Cheryl, the strumpet.”
“Nobody hooked up with anybody. Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m crushed.”
“Cheryl did meet a guy from Dallas she really liked. This was by the pool. He was staying at the hotel.”
“Did anyone warn him that she’s a strumpet?”
“You know how shy Cheryl is. She was too nervous to even talk to the guy.”
“So you pumped her full of booze?”
“We tried to boost her confidence and then gently encouraged her to say hello, as good friends do in these types of situations.”
“And then you bought her a couple of margaritas?” I asked.
“And then she had a respectful adult conversation with a man who turned out to be a true gentleman.”
“Right before she tore her top off and cannonballed into the pool?”
“Exactly,” Mia said. “That’s exactly how it all happened.”
“I figured as much.”
“Other than the obvious, did anything exciting happen while I was gone?” she asked.
“Let me think. I won three dollars on a scratch-off card, so we can afford to remodel the kitchen now. Oh, and the fat squirrel in the backyard continues to raid the bird feeder shamelessly. I worry about his cholesterol.”
We fell into silence again for a long moment.
Now was the time to tell her—to share the secret I’d been holding in. Surely I’d been worrying too much. Everything would be fine. It would all work itself out one way or another, right?