by Rick Copp
Luckily, as we hit the Fort Lauderdale exits, traffic slowed and he cut down on the fancy maneuvering. Once past the city, the highway opened up, and it was easier to hit the gas and keep him in my sights while maintaining a safe distance.
We drove on 95 for over two hours. Where the hell was he going? Was he so afraid of getting caught that he had to drive to a remote part of the east coast of Florida? Or did Viveca have a quiet little getaway on the Sebastian River? She had a few minutes’ head start, so she was probably putting on a little mood music and pouring a couple of glasses of Merlot. I could still see the bright red glow of the Kawasaki’s taillight as it veered right off the freeway, ten minutes past the town of Vero Beach. It dawned on me exactly where I was. The little hamlet of Sebastian situated roughly midway between Orlando and Miami. I had been here many times before. This was the home of Clyde and Priscilla Jarvis. My parents. Like many Florida zip codes, Sebastian was populated primarily by East Coast retirees who had discovered the joys of golfing and square dancing. For my parents, it was paradise. They had bought a quaint two-story riverfront house at an affordable price after I turned eighteen and no longer needed them to manage my career. They had despised the Hollywood scene, and were more than happy to leave it behind. They had both grown up on the East Coast, and were blessed with grounded East Coast sensibilities. They loved the simple life of Florida, where they could lounge with a cocktail on their deck that overlooked the river and watch the space shuttles take off from Cape Canaveral a short distance away. Viveca was just shy of their age range, so it didn’t surprise me that she had bought in the area as well.
Juan Carlos sped down Highway 111, and for a brief disquieting moment, I thought he was heading straight for my parents’ house. But just a mile short, he pulled into the parking lot belonging to a flat, plain-looking structure. In front, a weathered hanging sign barely illuminated by a dull street lamp rocked in the heavy wind. It said SAND DRIFT MOTEL. Viveca had certainly presented herself as a woman of means with her fur coats and flashy jewelry. This was well beneath her. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Juan Carlos was meeting Dominique, and at any moment, she would pull in behind me. As Juan Carlos pressed the kickstand of his bike down with the heel of his boot, I drove pass him so as not to raise any suspicion. I parked on the far end of the lot, facing him, turned off my engine, and shut down the lights.
Juan Carlos checked himself out in the rearview mirror of his Kawasaki, straightened his jacket, and popped a breath mint into his mouth. He ambled down the row of doors lining the one-story motel. When he reached door number six, he rapped on it twice with his fist. After a moment, the door opened, and I saw a young man step out. He was about Juan Carlos’s height and slender of frame, with dark olive skin and wavy jet-black hair. He broke out into a sexy, winning smile when he saw Juan Carlos. The kid was about twenty-four. He had on a ripped pair of jeans, no shirt, and he was barefoot.
I had expected Viveca or Dominique and was surprised by this new character in the picture. I was even more surprised when he grabbed Juan Carlos’s jacket and drew him close, covering Juan Carlos’s mouth with his lips. They stood there, devouring each other, before Juan Carlos got self-conscious, glanced around to see if they were being watched, and then pushed the kid back in the room, following him inside and slamming the door behind him.
I sat motionless in my Ford Taurus. The question was no longer, “Who is Laurette’s new husband sleeping with?” The question was, “Who isn’t Laurette’s new husband sleeping with?”
Chapter 15
I staked out the Sand Drift Motel for the whole night. Juan Carlos and the young shirtless stud who had greeted him at the door never left the room once. When the sun rose hours later, I sat in the Taurus, bleary-eyed and exhausted, knowing full well that the night hadn’t been nearly as satisfying for me as it had been for the occupants of room six. My scratchy throat ached for hot coffee, my mind imagining the jolt of caffeine that would help spring me to life. But if I left my post, I risked missing something that could shed some light on the salacious secrets of Juan Carlos Barranco.
With overwhelming proof, I was certain at this point that Juan Carlos was a stinking, lying cheat who never really loved Laurette, and used her heart and kindness to get ahead as an actor. But a murderer? With the San Simeon police not any closer to handing out an indictment in the murder of Austin Teboe at the Hearst Castle, my firm belief that Juan Carlos was somehow behind it all was a shaky proposition at best.
My cell phone battery was dead, so I plugged the jack into the cigarette lighter and started the car to give it some juice. Luckily I was on the Verizon America’s Choice plan that gave me unlimited calling access anywhere in the country. I hit the speed-dial button for home, and waited for a grumpy, groggy Charlie to pick up. I got our machine. It was eight-thirty in the morning in Florida. That meant it was only five-thirty on the West Coast. Where the hell was he? Why couldn’t I reach him? Was he on some all-night stakeout like me? I tried his cell number and got his voice mail. I was beginning to regret accepting the job in Florida. Charlie and I always worked things through, but maybe this time I had gone too far. Maybe he had reached his limit with me, and there would be no coming back from this one. As I pondered the state of my relationship, I spied a sleepy, long-haired desk clerk in his late twenties stirring inside the registration office. Since the shirtless kid in room six had arrived before Juan Carlos, chances were he had registered himself.
I stepped out of the Taurus, stretched my legs, and bounded across the parking lot, keeping one eye on the door to room six to make sure no one came out while I was in plain view.
The bells above the door clanged as I entered the office and startled the laconic clerk with the half-closed eyes.
“Can I help you?” he said with a slow, Southern drawl, barely offering me a cursory glance.
“Yes,” I said, mustering up a chipper, friendly voice. “I was wondering if you could tell me who is in room six?”
“Can’t. It’s like a rule or something.” His gaze suddenly caught mine, and his half-closed eyes popped opened all the way.
“Oh,” I said with proper disappointment. I reached behind for the wallet tucked into the back pocket of my jeans. I was not above a little bribe since it looked like the kid, wearing a torn, stained Counting Crows tour T-shirt and faded cutoffs, barely made enough for beer money.
He was still staring at me. “You’re . . . you’re that guy. From the TV show.”
Sometimes my past proved to be an invaluable asset.
“Go to Your Room!” I offered with a smile.
“Yeah, I watched you all the time when I was just a rug rat. You had that saying, the one that was on all the T-shirts,” he said, straining to remember. “What was it?”
“Baby, don’t even go there!”
He shook his head. “No, that wasn’t it. It was something like ‘Baby, don’t you be messing with me.’”
I wasn’t going to correct him. Let him think he was right if it got me what I needed.
“That’s right,” I smiled.
“Man, you’ve gotten old.”
My smile faded.
Oblivious to his social faux pas, the kid prattled on, “So what the hell are you doing way out here in the boondocks?”
“I thought I spotted a friend of mine from the good old days. One of the kids from Head of the Class.”
“You’re shitting me, man! No way! Which one?”
I had to think fast. I had gone clubbing with pretty much all of them at some point during the heyday of our various sitcoms. There was one in particular, though, I had always thought was adorable. I went with him. “The one who played the preppy, snooty kid.”
“Fuck, yeah! I remember him! That show was awesome, man!”
“Totally awesome,” I lied. When my show was canceled, my agent tried to float the idea of adding me as a new student in the show’s third season, but they didn’t bite so I forever hated the show.
“So where did
you see him?”
“Right here. At the Sand Drift.”
I thought the clerk was going to drop dead from shock. Not one, but two big stars at this obscure, crumbling motel were almost too much for him to take. He snatched up the registration book off the desk, and began skimming through the pages.
“I saw him go into room six,” I said, praying he wouldn’t ask me the actor’s name because I was drawing a blank.
The clerk ran his finger down the page and studied the name. He looked up at me hopefully. “David Miller?”
I shook my head and sighed. “Nope. Not him. Damn. He looks just like him.”
“Fuck, man, what a bummer. I was going to offer him a free continental breakfast and get him to be the first one to sign our VIP guest book.”
I glanced out the window and saw David Miller heading straight for the office. I turned to the clerk and said quickly, “Oh, well. Thanks anyway.”
“Hey, would you sign it?” the clerk said. “I know you didn’t stay here or anything, but who the fuck’s gonna know?”
I figured it was quicker to do as he asked rather than argue, so I scribbled my name illegibly in his scuffed blue notebook, dropped the pen, and held open the door as David Miller swept inside.
“I’m here to check out,” he said gruffly, tossing the keys down on the desk. He never looked my way and I took the opportunity to slip outside.
Juan Carlos stood by his bike and put on his helmet. I turned my head the other way as I passed him, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me, but he was lost in his own thoughts.
As I crossed the parking lot, I noticed a black Lincoln Town Car situated across the street and facing the motel. Two giants, one Caucasian, one Hispanic, were stuffed into the front seat. The one in the passenger seat held binoculars up in front of his face and watched me as I headed toward the Taurus. When he noticed that I was watching him watch me, he quickly turned and spoke to the driver. The Town Car roared to life, spun out of the gravelly road across from the motel, and sped off down Highway 111.
I hopped into my car just as David Miller ambled out of the registration office. Juan Carlos sat on the bike, twisting the handlebar accelerator so the bike’s engine revved loud enough to accentuate his macho posturing. Juan Carlos was obviously proud to have such a powerful machine wedged between his muscular, toned thighs.
David stopped, caressed Juan Carlos’s cheek with the back of his index finger, whispered a good-bye, and then headed to his own car, a sleek red BMW from the five hundred series. Whoever this kid was, he had money. So why meet at the dumpy Sand Drift?
Juan Carlos zipped out of the lot and headed back toward the 95 Highway. I knew he was returning to Miami. He had already gotten what he’d come for, and there was no reason to hang around on this desolate stretch of road anymore. I debated following the kid to find out more about him, but I was afraid someone in the area might recognize me. And if it got back to my parents that I was in town and didn’t at least stop in to say hello, Jarvis family relations would undoubtedly be dealt a severe blow.
It was a five-minute jaunt to River Oak Drive, and as I pulled up to the white two-story house with its breathtaking river view, I saw my father, Clyde, fussing in his tiny vegetable garden that sprouted one cucumber a year if he was lucky. Oh, well, it gave him something to do between golf games and square-dancing competitions.
The Ford Taurus pulling into the small paved driveway caught his attention, and as I waved with a bright smile, his face lit up. My father was a retired Navy captain, who’d spent most of his life touring ports around the world. He cut a striking figure at six feet four inches tall, and had a barrel chest that would have made him physically intimidating were it not for his sweet, kind demeanor. His silver hair was thinning, and he wore thick glasses that suggested his age, but his broad face darkly tan from nine months a year in the Florida sunshine was nearly wrinkle-free. Although seventy, most people would put him somewhere in his mid-fifties.
When Dad retired from the Navy, I had just landed my first commercial. I was five years old, and it was a thirty-second spot for Cap’n Crunch cereal. Although all I had to do was salute a cartoon character and say, “Ahoy, matey!” before diving into a bowl of cereal, seeing me on television made him cry. For a Navy captain, my dad cried a lot. He cried when I got my sitcom. He cried when I guest-starred on his favorite show, JAG, as a Navy admiral’s homicidal son. He cried when I broke up with my first boyfriend. He was always proud of me no matter what I did or whom I was dating. His years of military service did little to diminish his loving acceptance of me. I was his son and I was gay. Big deal.
As I stepped out of the Taurus, he rushed at me and enveloped me in his big, comforting, tanned arms. “Well, hello, stranger!”
“Hi, Dad,” I said breathlessly as he squeezed the last gulps of air out of me with his bear hug.
“How’s the movie going? How’s Charlie?”
Before I could answer, my mother, Priscilla, came sauntering out of the house. A foot and a half shorter than my father, she was your typical fiery redhead, a ball of energy and full of uncensored attitude. She carried a crossword puzzle and pen, and pushed her husband aside to steal a quick hug for herself. “He just got here, Clyde. Don’t hit him with so many questions!”
Although my mother had once run my career, she was not a fan of Hollywood. She was much happier now, mingling with real people outside of the spotlight. And although she’d lived among the gays while residing in LA and counted many of them as her close friends, in a stunning twist of irony she was not as accepting as my Navy dad. Her reaction was similar to Cher’s when her only daughter, Chastity Bono, had her coming-out party. “I love the gays, they’ve made my career, but please God, not my kid!” She cried, too, when I broke up with my first boyfriend, although upon closer inspection, I was able to identify them as tears of joy. In the early days of our relationship, Charlie had worked his magic, and she instantly adored him, treating him like her own son. She chose to ignore what went on between us behind closed doors and loved us both unconditionally. But she made it very clear she didn’t understand what had made me this way.
Mom and I decided to keep our relationship on a superficial yet loving level. She didn’t ask questions about my personal life, nor did I offer up any answers unprompted. Dad, on the other hand, would have drawn his own PFLAG posters to march in a gay pride parade if he’d felt it would bring us even closer. The bottom line was, however, that I loved them both. And to see their happy faces at my surprise visit dispelled any issues I had with the depth of my relationship with my mother.
After the initial flurry of kisses and hugs and updates on all of our activities, we piled into my parents’ Roadtrek motor home, which they’d purchased for a cross-country excursion that never happened, and drove to the nearest Olive Garden for an early lunch. Over pasta, garlic sticks, and the famous bottomless salad, my mother asked about Laurette’s wedding. She had heard through my sister in Maine that someone had died at the reception and she was champing at the bit to hear the details.
“He was a chef. He worked for some kind of mobster based out of Miami. Javier Martinez.”
“I’ve seen that guy on the news,” Dad said. “Feds have been trying to nail him for years,” he added gleefully, thrilled to be discussing something other than which restaurant chain they were going to target for an early-bird special later. “You think Laurette’s husband poisoned him?”
“I don’t have any proof of that, but I’ve got a gut feeling he’s involved somehow.”
“Motive?” Dad could barely contain himself. When I became embroiled in the murder of former child star Willard Ray Hornsby last year, my notoriety reached new heights. My Dad, a huge fan of CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, reveled in my involvement. He was a closet detective and an avid reader of mystery novels. He yearned to discuss the fine points of police work with Charlie whenever he could corner him in a room, and now that I was this amateur sleuth who’d cracked a real case, he found
it harder and harder to suppress his own desire to be the next Lieutenant Columbo.
My mother wasn’t very tolerant of her husband’s fascination with murder. She preferred lighter topics such as the latest movie releases and what kind of salary I was pulling down for this small independent film shoot in Miami. Even though her time in show business was peripheral and now a distant memory, Priscilla Jarvis loved talking money.
“Just give me a hint. Is it at least five figures?”
“It’s not about the money, Mom,” I said defensively. “Sometimes it’s about the art.”
“I thought you said it was a cheap horror movie,” she said, her eyes raised with suspicion like most mothers who are on the brink of catching their child in a lie.
“That’s right. And sometimes it’s not about the art, it’s about just working on something. The director is really hot right now, and if I do well, he could use me again when he gets his first big job at a studio. This could be an amazing opportunity.”
“What does Charlie think?” Dad asked innocently.
I should have at that point confessed that my relationship was teetering on the edge of extinction, and that I hadn’t been able to reach him by phone from the moment I arrived in Florida, and that I feared he was banging a judge, but instead, I popped the last garlic bread stick into my mouth and, between chews, replied, “He thinks it’s great.”