The Lieutenant by Her Side

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The Lieutenant by Her Side Page 19

by Jean Thomas


  She slid the salt shaker over to his side of the table. “Mark, what’s going on here? And no more evasions. You weren’t interested in us exchanging numbers before this. Why now?”

  He didn’t answer her for a moment. He salted his eggs, tasted them and then, apparently realizing she was going to persist with her questions until she was satisfied, he put down his fork and leaned toward her with a brief “Because we’re in Florida.”

  “And?”

  “He could be somewhere down here. Probably is.”

  She knew the he Mark was referring to. The nameless enemy who needed his pendant.

  “If he’s already managed to get to Hank Kolchek, and let’s hope we’re not too late to prevent that, then I’m next.”

  “This isn’t one of your combat zones, Mark.”

  “I’m a soldier, Clare,” he said grimly, “and he used to be a soldier for hire. How do you suppose he’s going to view it?”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand. You want me out of the way when he comes after you again.”

  “I’m the target. The one who has what this lunatic wants.”

  “So you’ve said before.”

  “I’m saying it again.”

  “Yes, only this time you’d like to park me somewhere safe while you go into battle. That’s it, isn’t it? Very noble of you, Lieutenant. Only you can forget it. We’re in this together, and there will be no arguments about that.”

  He considered her for another long minute, like the stubborn warrior he was. But in this instance her obstinacy was equal to his, and he must have understood this. That she wasn’t going to relent.

  “Let’s eat up” was all he said. “We need to be on the road.”

  To Muretta, she thought, and whatever waited down there for them. Something that might be decidedly unpleasant, and she would have to be ready for it.

  * * *

  It was almost noon when they reached Muretta. As Mark had learned yesterday after speaking to its chief of police, it was not a large town.

  “What’s that address again?” he asked Clare.

  She consulted the copy of Hank Kolchek’s letter she had brought with her. “One-thirty Coral Drive.”

  Mark used his GPS to give him what he wanted. “Got it,” he said after a minute.

  Clare realized it was not likely they would have any better luck than the deputy who had paid a visit to the Kolchek home yesterday. But she and Mark had agreed beforehand they would have to start somewhere, and it might as well be the Kolchek address.

  Coral Drive turned out to be one of the winding lanes inside a gated community that had the look of a new development. Maybe because there were no large shrubs or trees in any of the yards, Clare decided.

  With minor variations meant to individualize them, the houses were all the same. Single-story, Mediterranean-style villas with stucco walls and red, tiled roofs.

  “There it is, 130,” Clare said, pointing out a residence with bougainvillea flaming around the front door.

  Mark turned into the driveway. “Still no vehicle in the port,” he observed, referring to the deputy’s report. “Maybe you should wait here in the car.”

  He’s still trying to protect me, she thought. “If our bad guy did manage to pay a visit here himself, I don’t think he’d still be hanging around.”

  Mark offered no further objection when she followed him out of the SUV and up the walk to the front door, where he rang the bell. She could hear the sound of chimes inside. They waited, but there was no answer.

  Clare hadn’t expected one. There was a feel of desertion about the place. She tried not to compare it to that sinister quality of desertion that had chilled her in Malcolm Boerner’s courtyard just before they had discovered his body on the floor of his apartment.

  No reason for her to be chilled today. Not in this sweltering heat.

  Mark tried the door. It was locked. “Let’s check around the back,” he said.

  Something else the deputy must have done, she thought, trailing Mark around the side of the house. Had the deputy also peered into the windows? If so, he couldn’t have discovered any bodies on the floor. The chief of police would have told them that.

  Wherever the Kolcheks were, Clare prayed they were safe. That Joe Riconi’s and Malcolm Boerner’s killer hadn’t found them.

  She stood behind Mark when they reached the back door. There was no bell to ring here. He knocked, and they waited again. Clare had the uneasy feeling of being watched. When she looked over her shoulder, she was startled to discover a face poking out from the glossy leaves of a young orange tree in the backyard of the house behind the Kolchek property. It was a brown and very wrinkled face, as if it had been out in the Florida sun too long and too often.

  “We have company,” Clare murmured, nudging Mark.

  He swung around as an elderly woman emerged from the cover of the orange tree and approached the low fence that divided the two properties.

  “They’re not at home,” she announced, leaning over the fence.

  Clare joined her at the fence. “Would you happen to know where they are?”

  “At work, I imagine. They are every day, including weekends, which is why the neighborhood hasn’t had a chance to see much of them. That, plus they’re new in town.”

  She seemed to know all about the Kolcheks and was willing to talk about them. It made Clare wonder why the woman hadn’t shared this information yesterday with the deputy.

  Mark had to be thinking the same thing. It was why, when he appeared now at Clare’s side, he addressed the woman with an amiable “There was a police officer here yesterday wanting, like us, to find the Kolcheks. He called on the neighbors. Did you speak to him?”

  “Wasn’t at home to speak to anybody. I was out playing golf yesterday. Why did the cop want the Kolcheks? They do something wrong?”

  “Nothing like that.” Before she could question Mark any further, he went on with a quick “Could you tell us where they work?”

  “Sure. They’re both Realtors. Have their own office down in Orlando. That’s an easy commuting distance from here, you know.”

  “You must have struck up a nice friendship with them,” Clare said.

  “Me? I never had so much as a single conversation with either one of them.”

  “Then how do you know...”

  “Saw it lettered on the side of their van. Kolchek Real Estate. Representing the Best Orlando Has to Offer. Agents Wendy and Hank Kolchek. I could never make out the street address or phone number, though. Too small from my kitchen window.”

  “That should be enough for us to locate them,” Mark said. “Guess we’d better be on our way.”

  The woman is inquisitive, Clare thought. She would want to know how they were connected with the Kolcheks and why they were looking for them. It explained why Mark, expressing a fast thank-you, hurried Clare off to the SUV.

  “Chatty old dame, isn’t she?” he said when he’d settled himself back behind the wheel.

  “For which we have to be supremely grateful.”

  “You get no argument from me.” He started the engine and backed out of the driveway. “I guess we know where our next destination is.”

  * * *

  Clare had wondered why the Kolcheks had moved their residence from Orlando to Muretta. If it was because they wanted to live in a much smaller, quieter community, she could understand their rationale when she and Mark reached Orlando.

  Orlando was neither small nor quiet. Its giant theme parks had been largely responsible for the sprawling city it now was. A place heavy with traffic and tourists.

  Mark pulled over to the side. This time he used his smartphone to learn that Kolchek Real Estate was located at 1040 Blue Springs Road.

  Their objective turned out
to be on the other side of Orlando. Stores and offices lined the busy street on both sides. Mark cruised down its length while Clare looked for the number they wanted.

  “Up there on the right,” she announced after spotting it. “One thousand and forty.”

  Mark found a parking lot several doors away. They walked back to Kolchek Real Estate, a small operation tucked between a sandwich shop and a clothing boutique. Both the boutique and the sandwich shop were active with customers. Kolchek Real Estate was not.

  They stood there on the hot pavement and gazed in disappointment at the locked door with a Closed sign behind its glass. The large front window revealed an unlighted interior and a trio of unoccupied desks.

  “Let’s face it, Mark. Both their home and their business deserted. There’s a reason for that. They’ve cleared out. They must have somehow learned of the murders, even if Muretta’s chief of police hadn’t, and now they’re on the run.”

  “Possible, but not a certainty.”

  He was right, although she could see no other explanation for it. “So where do we go from here?”

  “How about the sandwich shop next door?”

  “Only you would be hungry at a time like this.”

  “Hey, it’s not just my stomach I’m thinking about. Could be they could tell us something in there. Neighbors, remember? We got lucky back in Muretta. Maybe we’ll get lucky here.”

  Since it was past midday and the usual lunch hour, they were able to get one of the few vacant tables at the rear of the shop. The tall server who arrived at their table to take their orders couldn’t have eaten much of what the place offered, Clare thought. He was as thin as a reed, with a long, narrow face. It was a face, however, that wore a welcoming smile.

  Mark spoke to him. “We were hoping to discuss something with the real estate agents next door, only there’s no one there.”

  “Yeah, that Closed sign has been on their door for the past couple of days or so. Too bad, because they could be missing sales now that the market is looking up again.”

  “I don’t suppose you could tell us how we could reach them. It’s kind of important.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you there. What will you folks have?”

  “Another disappointment,” Mark muttered after the waiter had departed with their orders.

  Clare shared his frustration. Were they at a complete dead end this time, with nowhere else for them to go? It seemed so. The Kolcheks could be anywhere. Neither she nor Mark had a suggestion to offer as they waited for their orders.

  Their glum moods lifted immediately when the waiter returned moments later with their sandwiches, sodas and a hopeful solution.

  “You know,” he said brightly, “I got to thinking about your problem, and that’s when I remembered there is someone who might be able to tell you how you can get in contact with the Kolcheks.”

  “Who?” Clare asked him.

  “Jennifer Lu. She was a third agent in their office. They hated letting her go, but when the housing market tanked they couldn’t afford her any longer. She and the Kolcheks had a close relationship, and from what I could see whenever the three of them stopped in here for lunch they were still on friendly terms.”

  “I don’t suppose...”

  “I could tell you how to find Jennifer? Easy. She managed to get a position at a much larger agency. Star Real Estate. That’s just down in the next block. Same side of the street.”

  They thanked him, ate their sandwiches, drank their sodas, left a generous tip on the table and headed on foot for Star Real Estate.

  Both of them were perspiring freely and grateful for the cool air that delivered them from the heat when they entered the office of Star Real Estate. A receptionist directed them to a nearby desk carrying a nameplate that identified the woman seated there as Jennifer Lu.

  Young, attractive and noticeably of Asian descent, she rose from her chair to greet them. Introductions exchanged, she saw them settled in side-by-side chairs. Seating herself back behind her desk, she asked them, “So, how can I help you?”

  “One of the waiters back at the sandwich shop told us you’re a friend of the Kolcheks,” Mark said.

  “Wendy and Hank? Yes, that’s right. If this is in connection with a property they represent, their agency is just next door to the sandwich shop.”

  “Yeah, we know that. Thing is, the agency isn’t open. There’s a Closed sign on the door and no sign of the Kolcheks. We’re anxious to locate them.”

  “And you thought I could help you with that?”

  Clare realized the woman was no longer smiling at them. That she looked puzzled, even a bit suspicious.

  “Mark, I think before we go on we need to show Ms. Lu some ID.”

  He nodded, produced his wallet and displayed his army identification that indicated he was currently based at Ft. Bragg. The agent glanced at it without comment and then at Clare’s driver’s license. Only then did she speak.

  “What’s this all about?”

  Clare was apologetic. “I’m afraid we’re being a bit mysterious here.” She went on to explain as briefly as possible their need to find the Kolcheks, taking care not to alarm the agent by telling her that her friends could be in serious danger.

  She’d omitted so many details she wasn’t sure Jennifer Lu was satisfied when she was finished.

  “Tell you what,” the young woman said, reaching for her phone. “I’ll try to contact the Kolcheks for you. If they’re willing, you can speak to them yourself.”

  Clare and Mark watched her as she dialed a number, waited, apparently had no answer and then tried what Clare guessed was another number. Again there was no result.

  The agent frowned. “That’s funny. Neither of them is answering their cells.”

  Clare understood what she meant without being told. It was essential to Realtors that they always make themselves available to any prospective buyers. That neither Wendy nor Hank Kolchek was picking up had her fearing they were unable to do so.

  Mark caught her attention with an expression on his face that told her without spoken words: Let’s not start imagining the worst. Not when we’re not sure of anything yet.

  Jennifer Lu’s own expression was a thoughtful one. “It’s just occurred to me there could be a reason why they’re not answering. It’s possible they’re not hearing their cells over the noise of that rental equipment they might be using.”

  Mark’s reaction was a perplexed “Uh...”

  “That needs an explanation, doesn’t it?” The agent went on to give them one. “Wendy’s grandmother died some months back and left her with this house she and Hank are trying to sell. From what they told me, it’s kind of rundown. No curb appeal and the interior in poor shape, especially the floors. It’s a long way off, but they’ve been going down there whenever they could to give it a facelift. I bet that’s where they are now and busy with electric sanders and the like.”

  Or using the house to hide out, Clare thought, daring to hope this was the case and that the Kolcheks were still safe.

  “Could you tell us where this place is?” Mark asked the agent.

  “I’m not sure that I...” She left the rest unsaid, the implication being that her friends might not appreciate being located by two people they didn’t know.

  “Please,” Mark appealed, “it really is vital we see them.”

  The woman hesitated before making up her mind. “Well, if it’s as important as you’ve both said...the house is in a town called Conch Beach. That’s on the Gulf Coast just south of Fort Myers. Here, let me give you the address. It’s on multiple listings, so I have it available.”

  Tapping a few keys on her computer, she brought up the multiple listings, scanned the screen and found the address. “Twenty-eight Canal Lane. I’ll jot it down for you.”

  Re
aching for a card and a pen, she printed the address and handed the card to Clare. Both Mark and Clare thanked the agent for her help. She wished them luck as they rose to their feet.

  They left Jennifer Lu with a pleasant smile on her face, but Clare had the feeling it wasn’t altogether genuine. That perhaps the young woman was already wondering if she’d made a mistake in not being more cautious with her information.

  A mistake for which Clare couldn’t help being anything but grateful.

  * * *

  They didn’t talk as they found their way out of Orlando and headed toward Conch Beach. Each of them was occupied with their thoughts. Clare wondered if Mark’s were similar to her own.

  Hank Kolchek. Were they at last able to reach him? Would they find him alive and unharmed? Or had a vicious killer managed to find him first?

  Clare prayed that wasn’t the case. Not just because, if they could enlist his support, he had the knowledge to prove Terry had no motive to murder her husband but that one of his former comrades did.

  There was that, of course. There was also Clare’s earnest hope that Hank Kolchek wouldn’t have to pay with his life for the sake of his pendant.

  The highways she and Mark traveled were all four-lane expressways. Those highways should have made their journey a swift one. And didn’t. Not only was the distance to Conch Beach a lengthy one, it was complicated by some of Florida’s heaviest traffic as the route took them through Gulf Coast cities like Tampa, Bradenton, Sarasota and Port Charlotte.

  It seemed to Clare like one unending urban corridor. All that did change, now that they were much farther south, was the vegetation. It became almost tropical in character, dominated by ranks of tall palm trees.

  Night overtook them as they reached the vicinity of Conch Beach.

  “Look,” Mark said, “let’s be sensible and find another motel. We can locate this Canal Lane with the GPS, but if we show up there after dark, a pair of strangers, we risk seriously alarming these people.”

  Much as she hated the idea of another delay, she knew he was right. Also, though he wouldn’t admit it, Mark was clearly exhausted. They both were. It would be much better if they met the Kolcheks in the morning, rested and clearheaded.

 

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