Matanzas Bay

by Parker Francis

  “Sergeant, so nice to see you again,” I said with what I hoped was the appropriate degree of sarcasm.

  He stepped toward me. I reflexively tensed myself in case he blew another valve.

  “You’ve heard the news about Poe?” he asked.

  “Didn’t take long to wrap it up,” I said. “One day. Must be some kind of record, even for a crack investigator like Detective Horgan.”

  “We have a solid case, and Poe’s going to get the needle for what he did.” Marrano spoke quietly, under tight control, unlike the raw emotion he displayed yesterday.

  “That remains to be seen, sergeant. From my perspective, this is a classic railroad job. The prosecutor will have to hold his nose when he presents the case, and the smell will probably gag the jurors.”

  Marrano took another step in my direction, and I instinctively tightened my stomach muscles. He responded with a twisted smile. Removing his sunglasses, he said, “You’re talking out of your ass, Mitchell. But that’s what I’d expect from you. The evidence proves he’s the killer. We found his prints on the murder weapon, and—”

  “Come on,” I broke in. “He must have told you why his prints were on the bayonet. There are three witnesses to back up his story.”

  “You can think whatever you want, but there’s no doubt we have the right man. There is one other thing bothering me, though.”

  The smug expression on his face didn’t waver as he waited for me to respond. Behind him, I spotted the long-neglected statue of Lady Justice standing on a stained pedestal. The statue’s arm, which normally held the Scales of Justice, was broken off at the elbow.

  When I didn’t take the bait, he said, “This is where you say, ‘Okay, sergeant, what’s bothering you?’”

  “I’ll bite. What’s bothering you?”

  “They also found your prints on the murder weapon. That’s what bothers me. Be thinking of a good answer because Horgan will want to know when he brings you in today.”

  “I’ll be glad to clear up the mystery for you, as I’m sure Poe did. There’ll be a lot of red faces when the truth comes out, sergeant. Not everyone believes you have the right man. In fact, your sister-in-law is one of those people. She’s hired me to find her husband’s killer since the police seem to have a bad case of tunnel vision.”

  Marrano replaced his sunglasses. “I’ll make you a promise, Mitchell. If it turns out we’re wrong about Poe, I’ll personally apologize to both of you. But if I find out you had a hand in killing my brother, you’re not going to know what hit you.”

  “You’ve already demonstrated your investigative techniques,” I said, patting my stomach. “But I look forward to your apology, and Mrs. Marrano will look forward to learning who really killed her husband.”

  “Erin’s made a mistake,” he said stiffly, his jaw tightening. “Poe killed her husband. There’s no question about it, and you should do yourself a favor and back off.”

  “You may be right, but I’m staying on the case until she tells me it’s over.”

  “And I’m telling you if you don’t watch your step you’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and sharing a cell with your friend.” He leaned in close. I smelled stale coffee and fried fish on his breath.

  “Listen, sergeant, I know you have a personal interest in this case, but Jeffrey Poe didn’t kill your brother. Someone’s obviously made a mistake.”

  “You bastard,” he spit out, his rigid control suddenly replaced by a hot fury. “The only person making a mistake is you. And you can’t afford to make any more enemies around here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  His lip curled into a sneer. “You forget where you are, don’t you? You’re not in Boston or New York. This is St. Augustine.”

  When I looked at him blankly, he added, “You’ve already put yourself on some people’s shit list by dating that colored girl, Serena Howard. Don’t make it any worse on yourself.”

  I hadn’t forgotten where I was, but maybe when I was. Wasn’t this the twenty-first century? Hadn’t we elected the country’s first African-American president? Marrano’s brand of ugly racism should have gone the way of those White and Colored signs once posted on rest rooms and above water fountains. An inner rage bubbled inside me, and I wanted to slam this ignorant redneck against the nearest palm tree and pound some decency into him. But I knew it was a lost cause.

  He spun around without another word, got in his car and left me alone with my rage.

  TEN

  The Martinez House fit nicely into the B & Bs, restaurants, and private homes on Charlotte Street. The fortress-like structure came equipped with an overhanging second floor balcony, recently whitewashed walls, and a narrow, shaded front yard. Two Shaker style rockers sat on the porch and a couple of hanging fern baskets filled in the space between the milled posts.

  I used the antique knocker to announce my arrival. Jarrod Watts opened the door almost immediately. He greeted me with his familiar bemused smile.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Mitchell,” he said, shaking my hand in a crushing grip.

  “Hey, Jarrod. I wish you’d call me Quint, I’m not that much older than you.” He appeared to be about the age my brother Andrew would be if he were still alive.

  He looked at me as though calculating my age before smiling broadly. “Sure, Quint. You here to see Mr. Henderson?”

  “Is he home?”

  Before Watts answered, a voice behind him boomed, “Jarrod, how long do you intend to stand there with the door open? Either move your ass so I can get a good look at our visitor or pull him inside before he faints from that gawd-awful heat.”

  Henderson was obviously home.

  Watts rolled his eyes at the outburst as if it was something he’d heard many times before, but he moved his ass aside and gestured for me to come in. I stepped into a large open room with exposed wooden beams, a fireplace, polished hardwood flooring, and Clayton Ford Henderson sitting in a Louis XV chateau cane chair next to the stairwell.

  “Welcome to Martinez House, Quint. We’re pleased to share our humble abode with you.”

  “You’re looking good, Clayton. How’s the knee?”

  “Still setting off alarms in airports,” he said with a chuckle. “Actually it feels pretty good today. I’m only sittin’ because Jarrod just put me through a sadistic workout, and I needed to rest for a few minutes.” He pushed himself from the chair with a little effort and took a wobbly step forward to shake my hand.

  Henderson’s wavy white hair was perfectly groomed, and a mischievous twinkle appeared in his watery gray eyes when he smiled. With his Deep South accent and southern charm, I imagined him in a white linen suit, standing on the veranda of a massive plantation house surrounded by women in ball gowns and servants dispensing mint juleps.

  “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”

  “Of course, as much time as you want. Why don’t we go upstairs to my study?”

  I glanced at the short but steep flight of stairs and back to Henderson. “We can stay down here if it’s too much trouble for you.”

  “Nonsense, I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. Besides, Jarrod keeps telling me I need more exercise.” He had one hand on the chair as he waved me off. “You go on up, don’t wait for me.”

  I took four or five steps before pausing to check on his progress. Three steps behind me, Henderson’s right hand gripped the railing as he carefully placed his leg on the next step. “What are you waitin’ for, Quint? I’ve climbed up and down these stairs a hundred times since my surgery. In fact, it’s been part of my daily—”

  His left leg seemed to have other ideas and slipped out from under him. Before I could move Henderson toppled backwards into the waiting arms of Jarrod Watts.

  His face paled, but Henderson quickly snapped into character. “Damn, Jarrod, you really are my knight in shining armor, boy. If I’d hit my head and croaked, I guess you’d be out of a job.”

  “That’s why I’m here, bo
ss,” Watts said. He held the old man under his arms while Henderson steadied himself and grabbed the banister for extra support.

  Watts followed him to the top of the stairs. When we reached the landing, Henderson said, “See, I made it fine, Jarrod. Now stop actin’ like a mother hen and make us some Anastasia Island Iced Tea. Care to join me, Quint?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Anastasia Island Iced Tea?”

  “Surely you don’t think I’d serve anything called Long Island Iced Tea in my house? My dear old granddaddy would send the ghost of Stonewall Jackson to render me a new one.”

  “I’ll have a taste,” I said. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “My study’s right here.” He pointed toward an open doorway. “Give me that strong arm of yours, my friend.” Henderson squeezed my bicep the way you’d check a melon, and pulled me toward the open door.

  We entered a large room with a high ceiling. While the downstairs seemed as immaculate as a model home, stacks of boxes, old newspapers and magazines covered the floor of Henderson’s study. We walked along a path cleaved through the middle of the piles of boxes to an open area by a window. Floor to ceiling bookcases lined both sides of the window and along one entire wall. A well-used desk and two chairs were perched between the windows. An old Royal typewriter, probably dating back to the nineteen-thirties or forties, sat on the desk.

  Henderson eased himself onto one of the chairs, pointing to the other and waited until I sat. Waving toward the mounds of clutter, he said, “I trust you’ll excuse the condition of my study. I’m a hopeless collector, I’m afraid. It drives Jarrod batty.”

  I smiled. “Reminds me a little of Jeffrey’s office. And the storeroom in his home, too, come to think of it.”

  “Didn’t I say as much at dinner that night? Jarrod couldn’t believe anybody could be as much of a pack rat as I am. He told me we must have come from the same sperm bank.” His smile faded and he licked his thin lips. “Poor Jeffrey. I suppose you’ve heard he’s been arrested?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” I told him Erin Marrano had hired me, of our meeting at her home, omitting the part about the burglary. He listened attentively while I spoke, his eyes never leaving my face. “You and Jeffrey are good friends, and I was hoping you might have some insights into the case. In fact, Mrs. Marrano suggested I should start with you.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Erin is such a dear. She didn’t deserve this. Of course, she shouldn’t have married that cretin in the first place, but no one would wish such a dreadful thing on the commissioner, would they?”

  Before I could answer, Watts entered the office carrying a tray with two tall glasses and a small dish filled with cookies.

  “Ah, Jarrod, your timing is impeccable, as usual. I need this refreshment before launching into my tales.”

  Watts placed the tray on the desk between us, and with the conspiratorial smile still on his face, retraced his steps through the mass of debris.

  Henderson watched him walk away. “I was so fortunate to find Jarrod after my surgery. He has this knack for knowin’ just how far to push me.”

  “Seems like a nice young man,” I said.

  “Yes, and he likes poetry, believe it or not.” He picked up his glass, gestured a symbolic toast my way and downed half the glass in one gulp.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he said, eying my untouched glass. I sipped it to be polite, knowing it would be all booze and no tea.

  “You have your work cut out for you, Quint. From what I hear, Chief Conover and the State Attorney have already tried and convicted our friend. But Jeffrey made it easy for them.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The skirmishes with Marrano at the city commission meetings. The imbroglio over the Matanzas Bay project. The whole pitiful mess. I’m afraid Jeffrey may have lapsed into a bout of temporary insanity.”

  “But you were against this project, too, weren’t you?”

  “It is a bit of a monstrosity. Like painting a mustache on the Mona Lisa.”

  “Did you ever accompany Jeffrey to the city commission meetings when he protested the project?”

  “One time. That’s all.” He cast an odd look my way before taking another swallow of the tea. “It was obvious from the start that the development was a fait accompli.”

  “Yet Jeffrey kept butting heads with Marrano. Did he really hate the man?”

  “Jeffrey considered Marrano to be a self-serving politician, but I wouldn’t say he hated him. No, he saved his hatred for Kurtis Laurance.”

  “But Marrano pushed it through the city commission.”

  “If you want to know the truth, Kurtis Laurance may have good reason to celebrate Mr. Marrano’s unfortunate demise.” He raised one feral eyebrow and fixed me with a look like an exclamation point on his not so subtle accusation.

  “I’m a little confused,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, Marrano was leading the charge on this project from the very beginning. How could Laurance benefit by his death?”

  “Mr. Marrano’s family goes back to the Minorcan settlers here in St. Augustine. You know about them, don’t you?”

  I indicated that I did. These were a group of indentured servants recruited from the Island of Minorca and elsewhere in the Mediterranean several hundred years ago to help build and work the colony of New Smyrna a hundred miles to the south. Many of them ended up in St. Augustine, and their descendants are influential in the community to this day.

  “Despite his other failings,” Henderson continued, “and he had many, I believe Marrano truly loved St. Augustine and didn’t want to see it harmed. The story I heard is that somewhere along the line, his conscience got the better of him and he had a change of heart about the Matanzas Bay project.”

  This didn’t fit into anything I’d learned about William Marrano. “Wasn’t it too late to change his mind? They’re breaking ground in four days.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a reformed vice mayor. Marrano had called a special meeting of the commission for Thursday night, and there were rumors he would try to put the project on hold until he could either kill it or downsize it substantially.”

  “And you think this is what got him killed?”

  “Quint, believe me when I tell you I’m a man who hates clichés, but I’ll ask you to do the math. Matanzas Bay is a two hundred and ninety-five million dollar project. Laurance has thirty million of his own money wrapped up in it.”

  “So?”

  “You know he’s runnin’ flat out for governor. Casting himself as a clear-headed, successful businessman. An alternative to business as usual in Tallahassee. Hell, some people are saying he has his eye on the White House down the line. How would it look if this development goes down in flames and he has to declare bankruptcy?”

  I watched him swallow more of the tea and place the glass back on the tray before adding, “Laurance had thirty million reasons to make sure that commission meeting never took place.”

  ELEVEN

  Afterwards, I returned to my car to discover Detective Horgan waiting for me. Even though Chief Conover took Buck Marrano off the case, I had a feeling the sergeant still pulled the strings and told Horgan where to find me.

  “About time you got back, Mitchell. I’ve been sitting here sweating my ass off for nearly an hour.” Horgan squinted through a haze of smoke from the cigarette clamped in the corner of his tight little mouth. “Let’s take a ride. We have more questions for you.”

  Not that I believed Horgan capable of the violence Marrano displayed, but Let’s take a ride sounded like a line from a bad gangster movie. “Sure, detective, but I’ll follow you. Lead the way.”

  No surprise why they wanted to question me. Had to be the bayonet. But interviews work both ways, and I hoped to learn more about their case. Poe’s prints on the murder weapon were easily explained. They might as well release him now if that was all the forensic evidence they had.

  Minutes later we arrived at the SAPD on King Street. Horgan stee
red me through the lobby where the same spectacled receptionist sat behind the desk.

  “In here,” Horgan said, punching his identification code into the security box next to the door, and pulling it open. We walked along a dim hallway, past the communications center, past a few small offices and stopped in front of a door marked Interview Room. He flipped on the light and nudged me through the door.

  A narrow table covered with a faux granite laminate jutted from the wall like the prow of a ship. The table was bolted to the floor and flanked by the same black plastic chairs populating the lobby. Horgan pointed to the chair on the left side of the table so I’d be facing the mirrored observation window. He stood in the doorway a moment before another man joined him. The newcomer appeared to be about forty with a head shaped like a fleshy Idaho potato. With his circular cauliflower ears and flattened nose he reminded me of Mr. Potato Head wearing a buzz cut instead of a derby hat. The man must have been a boxer or wrestler at one time, but his muscles had morphed into soft rolls of fat. He wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt, a narrow striped tie and a perpetual blush that made his face look like a freshly cut carrot.

  Both of the men stepped inside before Horgan closed the door and took the seat across from me. The other man plunked a large black storage box on the table between us. I caught the sharp tang of his body odor. “This is Detective Thompson,” Horgan grunted.

  I nodded to Thompson who ignored me.

  “Let’s go over how you came to be working with Dr. Poe the other day, and then tell us again about digging up the victim.”

  “Why don’t you look in your little notebook? I already gave you a statement.”

  “Humor us. Sergeant Thompson wasn’t there at the time and he wants to hear the story straight from the horse’s mouth. Isn’t that right, Dan?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Thompson leaned against the wall to the left of the observation window, a wattle of flesh hanging below his crossed arms. He was shorter than Horgan but probably outweighed him by fifty pounds.