Quint Mitchell 01 - Matanzas Bay
Page 29
I watched him scan the parking lot, glancing in all directions before unlocking the door to his room. He stepped inside, surveying the lot once more, then closed the door.
Running the length of the ball field, I left the pick-up game behind, surely impressing the kids with my speed as I ran. There was little traffic on South Main Street and I hurried across, moving to the right of the motel where several dozen used RVs sat in diagonal rows. A sign out front announced Bargain Prices for Road-Ready Class A Motorhomes.
Roberta Nesbitt had hired me to find DeAngelis and bring back her grandmother’s broach. Nesbitt was a crusty old broad who started out selling shrimp on the side of the road. Her husband had been a shrimper based in Mayport, outside of Jacksonville. So she knew shrimp, but obviously didn’t know much about men. Her husband left her with two kids and mortgages on the house and shrimp boat. It took her thirty years, but now she owned one of the largest wholesale seafood houses in the Southeast.
Unmarried since husband number one, Nesbitt fell for Ricky’s line, hook, rod, and shrimp net. She even paid for her own two carat engagement ring, spotted him a twenty-thousand dollar loan, and arrived home one afternoon to find her jewelry cleaned out and her white Caddy missing—along with DeAngelis.
She told me she’d like to cut off his balls, but what she really wanted was her grandmother’s broach. I told her I’d find him and see that he did some time, but there was no guarantee he hadn’t already fenced the jewelry. That didn’t make her happy.
Nesbitt had bought DeAngelis an iPhone, which was GPS enabled. Through a contact in the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office, I received tracking reports from the cellular network carrier, which led me through Georgia to Allendale, South Carolina.
As a private investigator from another state, I had no legal justification for apprehending a wanted man. Hell, even a PI living in Allendale couldn’t arrest anyone. Wrong kind of badge. My intention had been to locate DeAngelis, which I had, then call the sheriff. Let the locals deal with him. Nesbitt’s attorney was prepared to alert the local police and have the Heart Throb Bandit extradited to Florida.
That was still my plan until the door to room eighteen swung open and DeAngelis stepped out. He carried an overnight bag and a slim aluminum briefcase, which he locked in the trunk before returning to the room. I hugged the outside wall of his room weighing my options. I could dash back to my car and follow him. But he might give me the slip. I could tackle him in the parking lot when he returned to his car. Too public. I’d rather do this quietly. Taking him in his room seemed to be the best option.
Nothing in DeAngelis’ file indicated he was violent. All of his crimes had been of the passive variety, walking away with his victim’s savings, leaving behind broken hearts. Even so, I’d tucked my Smith & Wesson into the waistband of my jeans as a precaution. My shirt hung out, long tails covering the gun.
Quickly forming Plan B in my head, I decided to confront him before he returned to the car and detain him until the law arrived. Although he seemed to be in good shape for his age, I didn’t think he’d fight. Everything I’d read about DeAngelis described him as gentle and well mannered. He might try to sweet-talk his way past me, but I wasn’t a gullible old woman. Maybe he’d make a break for it and try to out-run me. Like that would happen. No, he wouldn’t argue with a thirty-eight in his face. Then I’d call the local constabulary and hope they understood why I took the law in my own hands.
Stepping up to the door, I knocked sharply and waited for it to open.
“Just a minute,” a voice called out from inside the room. I’d have to agree he sounded gentle and well mannered.
A few seconds later, I heard footsteps approaching the door and the click of the lock. The door swung open and I instinctively looked up a few inches expecting to see the refined features of the Heart Throb Bandit smiling at me. One hand was on my hip, ready to pull out the revolver.
Through the open door I saw a darkened room; a double bed looking like it hadn’t been slept in, an ugly floor lamp sitting next to a green easy chair with a matching hassock. What I didn’t see was Ricardo DeAngelis.
I heard a soft whoosh before a blinding pain exploded across my knee. My knee buckled under me as the pain burst into pinpoints of light in the back of my retina. I rolled on the sidewalk clutching my knee. Cursing my stupidity. Cursing DeAngelis.
DeAngelis rose from behind the wall next to the door where he’d been kneeling. Through my pain I heard him say, “Sorry about that, my friend.”
He held a length of pipe in one hand and his car keys in the other. DeAngelis stepped over my writhing body and sprinted to Roberta Nesbitt’s Cadillac. I attempted to stand, reaching for my revolver at the same time, but I lost my balance and landed on my ass.
Lying in front of the open motel door, like a discarded pizza box, I watched helplessly while DeAngelis fired up the Caddy and roared away.
Look for Bring Down the Furies, coming soon.