The Shop

by J. Carson Black

  Only it wasn’t a cigarette lighter. It was a USB flash drive. Using gloves, Jolie carefully extracted the flash drive from the can and plugged it into the USB port on her laptop. And waited.

  She got impatient, her heart thumping hard. Electricity running through her veins as the computer took a couple of seconds to digest the information. Then the window came up. She clicked past the window, and the data on the flash drive came up.

  There was only one file on the drive: “Photos.”

  She clicked on it, and up they came. Five thumbnail photos.

  At first glance, four of the photos were broken up into light and dark space. The dark spaces formed a V shape in two of the photos. The last photo showed a crowd—men in dark slacks and mostly dark polo shirts, and something white. Very white.

  She started at the beginning and clicked on the first photo. There were three sets of dark trousers. Two of them standing, forming the V of light area she’d seen. One set of legs kneeling on the floor—she could see the bottoms of the man’s shoes. He was on his hands and knees, the bottom of a tan polo shirt pulling from belted trousers. Beyond the kneeler, between the trousered legs of the standers, Jolie saw what looked like another leg. A naked leg, stretched out on what looked like gleaming tile. Saltillo tile.

  She clicked on the next thumbnail. The picture was out of frame, as if Luke had been too excited and had clicked it hastily. But still, Jolie could see the kneeler better. He’d moved a little, so she could see his shaved head. Big guy, massive, his face turned away. He wore an earpiece. The kind worn by the Secret Service.

  She saw more of the naked leg between the trousered legs. Men bent forward. One of the leaning men stretched out an arm, reaching toward something Jolie couldn’t identify.

  In the next photo the angle was different, and Jolie could see the unidentifiable thing a little better. Red as a beet against the tile.

  Mashed, pulpy.

  Jolie had seen photos like this before, in crime scene pictures. She’d seen them in person, too. People who had been beaten beyond recognition.

  Her stomach recoiled. She knew the man lying on the floor was Nathan Dial, although he would be impossible to identify.

  Once again, she was amazed at what one person could do to another. Fourth photo: the man in the tan polo shirt bent over the supine man, administering CPR.

  Fifth photo: the men in the polo shirts and slacks and earpieces hustled another man away from the man on the floor. The tableau had the quality of a medieval painting, soldiers ushering someone away to safety—or to his doom. The man they were hustling was pale and clearly bewildered. His gray hair stuck out from his head. She couldn’t see his face. Every line of his body told Jolie he was stunned, that he had difficulty moving under his own power.

  A thick white terrycloth towel was wrapped around his waist.

  Now what?

  She’d been vindicated. Great. But now what?

  This was proof, but it wasn’t proof.

  Chain of evidence.

  There was none.

  Maybe if Luke had been arrested before and he had fingerprints on file—this could link him to the flash drive.

  It would be helpful. And Jolie bet he had been arrested before.

  But was this the vice president? She couldn’t tell. Was this Nathan Dial? She doubted his own mother would know him. The man with the shaved head giving CPR—perhaps he could be identified.

  There was the Saltillo tile. Jolie hadn’t spent very much time at Indigo. She guessed the tile belonged to one of the cabanas, but since she’d never been to the cabanas she wouldn’t know.

  There were other furnishings, but they were a blur. Something that could be a wall sconce. What looked like the edge of a bed—a bedspread, just one corner. Pale green, a striped design.

  Louis met her at the JB’s in Gardenia. JB’s was filled to the gills with the lunch crowd, and the babble covered anything they might say. The waitress was harried, banging down ceramic coffee cups and a carafe, taking their order quickly. She returned in ten minutes with Louis’s food, and Jolie knew from experience she wouldn’t be back for a long time. Jolie had coffee but nothing else; she opened her laptop on her side of the table.

  Louis said, “You said something about photos?”

  Jolie pushed the laptop across to him.

  “What are these?”

  “What does it look like to you?”

  “Somebody got beat up bad. Where’d you get this?”

  Jolie told him about her search for Luke’s missing phone. “No one has his phone—not Gardenia PD or the FBI or you guys.”

  You guys. Jolie realized what she’d just said, and she understood then that she didn’t feel part of the Palm County Sheriff’s Office anymore.

  “This is what you wanted me to look for on Amy’s phone? What do you want me to do with it?”

  “Investigate. It’s part of your case.”

  “Where do I start? There’s no chain of custody. I can’t use this.”

  “I suggest you start at the beginning.”

  “What’s the beginning?”

  “The standoff at the Starliner Motel on Memorial Day weekend. That was the same weekend the vice president was here—at Indigo.”

  She filled him in on what she’d learned from Nathan Dial’s roommate, Scott Emerson. Told him about the man, Rick, trolling for young men at Cove Bar. “That could have been a fake name. He could be the big guy giving the kid CPR in the photo.”

  Louis shook his head. “I don’t think this is going to fly. Why don’t you go to Skeet?”

  “Because he’ll listen to you.”

  Louis considered that. He motioned to the laptop. “It could get you fired.”

  “Right.”

  “So I can take this?”

  “Go ahead. I’ve got it on my hard drive.”

  He removed the thumb drive and rose ponderously to his feet. “I don’t think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of doing anything about this. We’re talking about the vice president of the United States.”

  “You’ve got a better chance than I do.”

  “Okay, lemme see where you found this thing.”

  She gave him the can of Copenhagen and the photos she’d taken of the boat and the grassy area where she’d picked up the can.

  He sighed. “My wife’s lawyer’s got me jumping through all sorts of hoops—and now this.”

  50

  Jolie had done what she could. Louis would have to go at it from another angle and come up with evidence of his own. He’d have to build a case; he was a talented detective. As long he could deal with his personal problems, Jolie had no doubt he’d find a way to connect the dots.

  But she wouldn’t leave it at that. She’d be riding herd on him, funneling information to him as it came up. She might have handed him the case, but this wasn’t the end of her involvement.

  Her first thought after seeing the photos was to get Kay to take her to the island. She wanted a look inside the cabanas. She wanted to look for the Saltillo tile, a pale green striped bedspread, the wall sconce.

  Kay wasn’t going to help her now, though.

  Belle Oaks.

  The words had been in the back of her mind all this time, nagging like an aching tooth. Maybe now was the time to address it. Back at home, she turned on CNN to see what was going on in the world—a habit she’d gotten from her dad. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and Googled “Belle Oaks” plus “Tallahassee.”

  There were a number of matches: the Belle Oaks Restaurant and Golf Club, the Belle Oaks Riding Academy, and a private health care facility. Jolie eliminated the riding academy immediately. There was a Belle Oaks Drive, too.

  Again, Jolie wondered what Kay had been aiming at. Did her parents fight in the bathroom, and she’d somehow witnessed it? She was not even eighteen weeks old when her mother died, and she had no memories from that age. But perhaps she’d absorbed it in some way. Was that the reason for her panic attack at the house
?

  She thought she knew her father, but maybe—

  No.

  Maybe someone had broken into the house—a home invasion.

  The CNN music for breaking news came on. Jolie ignored it. Since 9/11, these channels had “breaking news” on twenty times a day.

  She clicked on the private health care facility. A photo of a red brick Federal-style mansion came up, framed by tall oaks draped with Spanish moss and a green lawn. Another photo at the side—two elderly women and an elderly man eating ice cream cones in the sunshine.

  Jolie was still looking at the elderly man and the elderly women having the time of their lives, when she heard the words “Vice President Pintek.”

  She looked at the TV.

  The screen was dominated by an aerial view of the vice president’s residence, the Naval Observatory.

  As a cop and a longtime watcher of CNN, Jolie knew aerial views seldom meant good news. Maybe someone had breached the grounds.

  But it was worse than that.

  The vice president of the United States, and Jolie’s number one suspect in the death of Nathan Dial, wasn’t the victim of breached security.

  He was dead.

  Whatever had been, whatever she had planned up to this moment was no more. The vice president was dead—no one could prosecute him now.

  She needed to get away from the hot, muggy house. Needed to get away and think. She went for a drive.

  Jolie didn’t know how she felt about the VP’s death. A number of things, actually. First, satisfaction. Payback. Owen Pintek was dead. Now she could leave it alone. Louis would drop it, and Jolie could stay on paid leave and forget about turning over any rocks or tweaking any noses. She wouldn’t get into any further trouble with Skeet. She could keep her job without even trying. Jolie knew this. Skeet didn’t have enough to fire her, not without her help. And now she wouldn’t give him any more ammunition to use against her, because it was over.

  Except there was one thing. Her family. It was possible—likely, in fact—that someone in her family knew about Nathan Dial’s death. Uncle Frank, probably. He was the attorney general and a longtime friend of the VP’s. They’d both been in President Baird’s cabinet. Maybe Franklin had been part of the cover-up. And there was Luke’s death. Who had he tried to blackmail with the images on his phone? The vice president of the United States, or the Haddoxes?

  Jolie thought he’d go for the Haddoxes. Blackmailing them would be nowhere near as daunting. The Haddoxes were local. How would Luke get in touch with the vice president of the United States? The simple answer: he couldn’t. But Luke worked for the tree service that took care of Franklin Haddox’s grounds. In his ignorance, he’d think that would be the same as accessing the vice president.

  She drove to Gardenia, past the Iolanthe Paper Company, past the shuttered Starliner Motel, then over to Panama City. All the time thinking about the people who had been killed. Luke and Amy died because of their blackmail scheme. Kathy Westbrook and Maddy Akers were collateral damage. Then there was Nathan Dial, whose death started everything.

  Now the vice president was dead, too. According to the television reporter, there was no information other than the death appeared to be due to natural causes. His wife discovered him in their bedroom early this morning, “unresponsive.” That was all the information available, although CNN played it over and over again in a loop and the experts had been brought on to make their guesses.

  Jolie followed Route 30 into Panama City Beach. She drove past the Waffle House where she’d met Scott Emerson. Thought about Scott, how they worked the Cove Bar together.

  He should know the truth.

  Shouldn’t do this. But Jolie was tired of all the things she shouldn’t do, so she punched in his number. Almost gave up as the phone rang and rang. Thinking it was just as well he didn’t answer. This could be a Pandora’s box. And then he picked up.

  “Have you seen the news?” she asked him.

  “Is it Nathan? Did they find him?”

  “No. Vice President Pintek is dead.”

  A pause. “What does that have to do with anything?” Another pause. She could almost hear him thinking—putting it together. “You think…” Then he said, “Jesus. You think that was the party? You have any proof? How…?”

  “Listen,” Jolie said. “It’s common knowledge that the VP was into rough sex with young men.” She did not tell him about the photos. About how much she really knew.

  “Oh God. That guy Rick. Somebody said he looked like Secret Service. Are you sure? And now the vice president’s dead?”

  “Turn on the television.”

  She heard him do that. Jolie listened to the news in the background, but Scott Emerson said nothing.

  Time stretched. She became aware of how hard the phone was pressed against her ear. “Scott?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I thought you’d want to know what happened to Nathan.”

  “I don’t know anything, except who you think the guy was. I don’t know how it happened or why it happened, I don’t know how they disposed of him, I don’t know anything. And now this man—the man you think did this—is dead and he’ll never pay for what he did, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing!”

  “I thought you’d want closure.” She winced as she said it, because people had often used the same word with her, and she despised the word.

  “Closure?” he said. “What the hell is that?”

  51

  When it was full dark, Landry walked the three blocks to the maid’s car. He drove to the house, backed up into the garage, and opened the trunk. Getting Special Agent Salter out was a challenge, since Landry didn’t have the use of his right hand and Salter was a big man like himself. But Landry had been trained to drag bodies, living or dead, in ridiculously impossible circumstances. By using his body as a brace, he was able to leverage Salter’s body to the concrete floor. That was all he had to do—no need to get elaborate.

  The private investigator, Ted Bakus, was easier. He weighed a little more than half what Salter did. Landry pushed Bakus’s leg out of the way to make sure it cleared the back tires of the maid’s car.

  He rounded up the weapons from each of the rooms and put them in the trunk, then showered and changed into an extra set of clothes he’d brought with him.

  On the way back to Indigo, Landry stopped at the Buy Rite drugstore in Port St. Joe where he bought a wrist brace, a large roll of duct tape, several rolls of packing tape, and an industrial-sized drum of Motrin. The Motrin he popped like candy.

  The duct tape was for an emergency, in case he needed to reinforce the wrist brace and keep his arm steady.

  He drove to a Dumpster behind a boarded-up restaurant and got out, leaned against the car, and made the call. The phone was answered on the first ring—a young man with an accent. India or Pakistan.

  “I’m trying to reach the Realtor for the house on Island Lane.”

  “Let me look it up for you, sir.” A short pause, then he rattled off the number. Landry disconnected and punched in the new number.

  “Hello?”

  Landry said, “Would it be possible to see the house tonight?”

  “What time?”

  “My friends and I can be there by eleven.” Landry was telling the man that the team would be in place by eleven p.m.

  “Why not in the morning? It can be as early as you want.”

  “I’m afraid by then it will be too late. I have a very early flight.” This was Landry’s way of saying that they would raid Indigo in the wee hours of the morning and would be flown out shortly afterwards.

  “I’ll check with my wife and call you back.”

  “Thanks.” Landry disconnected, stomped the cheap cell phone into bits, and threw it into the Dumpster.

  Landry was all for covering his tracks, but an enigmatic conversation like the one he’d just had seemed more like somet
hing out of Mission Impossible than real spycraft. But from what Landry had learned of Cardamone, the man was CIA all the way. If the CIA had a choice between doing something straightforwardly or in a sneaky way, they’d take sneaky every time.

  When he got to the island, he went looking for Franklin. He needed to get some sleep and wanted a quiet room.

  52

  Jolie lay in bed, watching the numbers on her alarm clock roll over from 5:29 to 5:30 a.m.

  The vice president of the United States is dead.

  The world was completely out of whack.

  She sat up.

  All of this was much bigger than she’d thought. It had gone from scandal to the death of a sitting vice president. If the vice president of the United States died because he’d become a liability, the enormity of the crime was stunning.

  Yesterday, Jolie had lowered the flag as she did every evening. Ed was outside puttering around, so he came by and stood with her. Jolie felt tears collect in her eyes and drain into her throat—she couldn’t talk. Ed had been in the infantry and had seen so many kids his own age die right in front of him. He had accepted their deaths because of what the United States of America meant. Because dying for your country was worth it, if that country was the United States.

  Jolie thought about her dad and his strong belief in this country. He knew it wasn’t perfect and he was often on the wrong side of issues—at least that’s how this town saw it—but he still had that belief. He’d loved his country probably more than any other single thing.

  She got up and turned on CNN, expecting more coverage on the vice president’s death, sure they’d run it into the ground. But they surprised her. There was another aerial view, this one of a burning building in Tallahassee.

  Breaking news.

  Jolie was about to switch channels when she heard the name of the building in question. The Victorious Redemption Spiritual Church.

  Grace’s church.

  Goosebumps ran up her back and fanned out along her shoulders.