by Tom Lytes
“Tough to say. He’s pretty good, but there don’t seem to be obvious clues. It’s not going to be easy.”
“Well, when you get back, I’ll want you providing back-up, keeping me informed of their developments.”
“Yes, sir,” she said before he disconnected the call.
Peggy knew the mayor would replay the news of Finley and Ms. Bourgeaux’s meeting at the river over coffee the next morning. His audience at the deli counter on Main Street would be rapt as he spun the tale with sensational partial truths. Finley and the FBI would be on the losing end of the narrative, and Peggy almost felt bad about it.
Almost.
As one can do in a police car, Peggy made good time. The sea of drivers along the interstate switched into the right lane as she maintained speed in the left. Out the window, summer in New England was in full swing. Intense tree growth during the few warm months and the corresponding burst of greenery was on full display as the mountains rolled up and down underneath her and off into the distance. It wasn’t until she hit the I-95 interchange and skirted New York City that industry competed with the green foliage that sprang from everywhere.
Massive natural gas storage areas and refineries monopolized the views from her car. As night hit, their lights sprawled in all directions, giving way occasionally to streetlights and the abundant housing that always startled her for its density and monotony. Early the next morning, she crossed the North Carolina border before stopping at an inexpensive hotel. She slept like a rock and for longer than she anticipated.
When she woke up, breakfast was over at the hotel, so she walked the nearby neighborhood to see what she might find to eat. She got lucky with strong coffee and an empty carbohydrate from a place called Mayorga Coffee and was soon back on the road.
There hadn’t been any word from Finley or anyone else in New York, so she figured the FBI collected whatever they could find from the warrant and were testing it all to death. She was relieved to have taken care of what she knew would have been an obvious problem with the warrant, by ditching the gun. That was the obvious set-up put in motion to ensnare Peggy in the judicial system, and she hoped there wasn’t anything else incriminating lying around her house that she didn’t know about. Thoughts of what might be happening at home were in her head, and she knew the search warrant at her house and the accusation of the hate crime were as potentially troublesome to her as the murder of her brother. The judicial system wouldn’t care that she was guilty of one and not the other. She marveled at the randomness of the system that only punished those who were caught. Didn’t that embolden those who weren’t? She hadn’t thought quite in that way before.
When she headed east onto I-26 in South Carolina, she started seeing signs for Charleston. A hundred miles later, she found herself on a bridge that was at least a mile long. To the right, she could see the old city. Church steeples and brick buildings with stone roofs created the city skyline. To the left, large tributaries meandered up to ports with busy cranes and massive boats. The town of Mount Pleasant was in the balance, with the islands just off in the distance. It was like no place she had ever seen, and she hugged the right lane to take in all the sights.
Peggy continued until she was driving on a two-lane road through the marsh. At the Intercostal Waterway, there was a bridge, and then she was driving over the marsh again. When she hit dry land, GPS told her she arrived at her destination: Sullivan’s Island. Driving onto the island, there was a gas station on her right and across the street was Dunleavy’s, which looked to be an Irish Pub. Further down the block were a slew of restaurants and small businesses. She turned into the gas station, went inside the convenience store by the pumps, and fell in line behind a group of twenty-somethings in bathing suits with no shoes, buying beer.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” she said to the cashier as she took a water from a refrigerator display and put it on the counter to pay. “Can you tell me about the island? I know I can Google my way around, but I’d rather look at the scenery than my phone.”
“Especially when you’re driving, dear,” the lady behind the counter said. “Take a right and follow the road. In less than a minute you’ll have past all the restaurants on the island. They’re all good – a lot of them are associated with the award-winning chefs in Charleston. After you pass the park on the right, the tennis courts on the left, keep going past the houses until you pass Fort Moultrie where the Civil War started. Then you’re going to see the oldest church anywhere, named Stella Maris. You stay on that road and it gets smaller down there near the end of the island, and eventually it will be a one lane dirt road. When you run out of island, you’ll be looking at the Charleston Harbor. Spin around and drive the same street back, pass this gas station and continue. Everything past here is residential housing after the one stop sign, and when you run out of island on that side, there’ll be a bridge to Isle of Palms. The whole tour will take you a few minutes, longer if you stop and put your feet in the water.”
Peggy thanked the lady, and when Peggy started driving again, the island unfolded just as she said. There were people walking, skate boarding, golf carting, biking, and running along the streets and sidewalks. Houses varied in style from huge elevated mansions that towered over the street to small brick ranches and tiny wooden cottages.
Peggy travelled to each end of the island before returning to the section of Middle Street with the gas station and restaurants. She pulled the police car along the side of the road opposite a public park with a basketball court a block from the restaurants. On foot, she could see small retail shops and offices maximizing square footage all around the eateries.
She ducked into a coffee shop and took a dark roast out to a porch seating area overlooking the street scene. For how many Range Rovers she saw driving around, it seemed like a local dealership was trying to take over the island. A few sips of strong coffee helped shed her road-weariness as her phone rang. It was Finley and she declined the call. Finley rang again, and she turned off the ringer.
A couple at a table next to hers were looking at the cover of the Post and Courier. She overheard them discussing the newspaper’s front -page story.
“—and they’d never have uncovered the embezzlement if the janitor hadn’t poisoned the water cooler.”
“I know, it’s creepy, right? Just shows you how you can’t be prepared for everything. I mean, seven people died. Don’t you wonder what was going through the janitor’s head. I mean, he must have really hated those people.”
“It makes you think, though, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“All the people who died, the whole company, everyone there was crooked. They were stealing from their clients, their affiliates, and even each other.”
“Yeah, they weren’t nice people.”
“It just makes me wonder about karma, whether they got what was coming to them. Like they deserved it—”
“You don’t believe in that stuff, do you—”
Peggy stood with her to-go cup and walked off the porch and onto the sidewalk out front. Three buildings down, past a barbecue place, a cluster of shops and offices in a single building advertised with wood signs up and down the front siding of the raised building. When Peggy saw the sign for Viewshed Realty, she climbed wooden stairs and sought out their office.
She pushed the door open, and air-conditioned air whooshed to greet her well before the jangling bell on the door and smell of new carpet.
“Hello darlin’,” an older woman said as a way of greeting. “You’re police, but not from ‘round here.” She looked at Peggy’s uniform. “New York, huh? Welcome to our island. Ya’ll looking for a house?”
Peggy looked behind her. The “ya’ll” threw her off. She was alone.
She said, “No, I’m not looking for a house.” She laughed. “I think the whole area might be out of my price range.”
“Five
million for beachfront is out of almost everybody’s range.”
Peggy nodded, and smiled. “I’m looking for somebody who lives down here. Could you help me?”
“Well, I live here, so you accomplished your mission. Just kidding, who is it you’re looking for, Dear?”
“His name is Leonard, and he’s a computer expert, I think.”
The woman took a pair of glasses off her face and a wry smile captured her features.
“Now, you just wait one second. Is that how they do things in New York. You just drive up to a new town and walk in somewhere and say the first name of a guy and they tell you exactly where he is?”
“Uh,” Peggy said, “no.”
“All right, I was just checking. Now, back to your question. Leonard?” the older woman asked as she looked out the window. “Now tell me, Dear, that he’s not your boyfriend.”
“No,” Peggy said. “Nothing like that—”
“Phew, what a fright you gave me. I didn’t want to be the one to break it to you, if you were. He’s a womanizer and known all over the island. Should have known you weren’t his significant other.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, Leonard prefers the fake blonde, fake nails, fake boobs type that you can find throwing an acorn into any crowd down south.”
“Oh, I see. My name is Peggy Whitfield,” she said, extending her hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” the realtor replied, shaking briskly. “My name’s Barbara Pelman, and I was born and raised right here on this island.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you.”
Barbara nodded. “Why would you want to find Leonard, of all people? Has he done something awful?”
“It’s in connection with an investigation we’re conducting in New York.”
“Will he be arrested?”
“Nope, just questions,” Peggy said.
The other woman paused and might have looked disappointed. She fiddled with papers on her desk. Peggy let the silence sit as the woman picked up a pencil and twirled it.
She said, finally, “He’s a few blocks down, where Middle Street becomes oceanfront. I sold him the lot and sold the old house that used to be there twice before you were probably born. Anyway, Leonard built a fancy new house down there,” she pointed towards the Charleston Harbor, “with one of the builders on the island. A little modern for my taste, trendy in the moment until something else becomes popular.”
“Can you give me the address?”
“You ask that question, and I know right away you’re from New England.”
“Why is that?” Peggy asked warily.
“You’re in the South now, honey. Here, we respect law enforcement and the military. That means we are thankful for you serving us, in case you don’t understand. And that means we help you do your job, not make it difficult. Even if you are from New York.”
“Oh,” Peggy said.
“He lives at 1311 Middle Street.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” She thrust her glasses back in place with a jabbing finger. “Don’t be a stranger.”
At the end of the island, the house sat off the road along a stretch where the domiciles became grander and further apart. Leonard built to impress, with a wide angular front facade adorned with massive windows. The house angled towards the beach and Peggy could see to the back where a large pool and deck overlooked the ocean. In the drive, two matching black Porsches looked brand new. She pulled her police car in parallel to a hedge three houses down and when she got out of the car in her police uniform (which was the only set of clothes she brought with her) she felt like how Barbara Pelman saw her, a cop from up North.
She walked back towards Leonard’s house, careful to stay in the shaded areas of the roadside where the canopy of live oak branches and fan palms provided her with as much cover as she could expect while wearing her uniform. Somewhere nearby a weedwhacker revved. She was at the white side fence of the neighboring property when a tall, slender man with long-on-top blonde hair came out the front door and started trotting down the steps to street level. Leonard, she assumed it was him, wore Sperry shoes, a white pair of pants, and a loose-fitting cotton shirt. He’d been in the sun some, and despite herself Peggy couldn’t help finding him handsome. She took three steps off the street, and into the yard. Moist mulch sank under her feet, and she walked along where it ended at the white fence. She stopped when she could look around the trunk of a tall palm tree and see Leonard’s house clearly.
He disappeared into the shadows and must have passed into the space under the raised house. Judging from the height of Leonard, and the space until the ground floor of his house, Peggy estimated the house was at least twelve, and maybe thirteen feet above the sandy earth beneath it.
Before she had time to look anywhere else, Peggy startled when Leonard came cruising out from under the house in a golf cart, its noiseless operation evidently fueled by an electric motor. Careening out of the driveway without looking for cars, Leonard took a right, heading towards the restaurants and gas station, away from where Peggy was becoming friends with the native foliage.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Finley, again.
“Hello Fin,” Peggy said quietly.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” Finley asked.
Peggy shot back, “What were you doing in the woods with Ms. Bourgeaux?”
“Ah, Peggy, nothing. We weren’t doing anything. I told you.”
“Well, Fin, how did you think that was going to look? You going down to our spot on the river.”
He said, “I thought it would look like I was doing my job. I thought you’d know how much I cared about you. How I’d never do anything to screw up what we had, what we have.”
Peggy closed her eyes and stayed silent, willing the conversation to take another turn.
After a few seconds, he asked, “Where are you?”
“South Carolina.”
“Uh, okay, they finished up the search of your place,” Finley said, “so you know.”
She wanted to trust Finley, but there were things she could never tell him. Certainly not what she’d done to Doyle.
“There’s nothing to find there, Fin.”
“I know that, but they’ve sent stuff to the lab for tests. Once they get going they can get carried away.”
Peggy forced herself to bite her tongue. Finley didn’t seem to be fishing for information, but her own fear of what might come of the warrant would be obvious if she talked about it.
“And nothing came of the conversations with Ms. Bourgeaux, by the way. She seemed to give us some leads, but everything leads to nothing, and now we can’t find her.”
Peggy chuckled, “What about the bank information she provided?”
“All nothing, and we’re on the same team, Peg. I hear you laughing.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Peggy said, laughing louder, not working at hiding her amusement in the slightest.
“I see how it is,” Finley said with amusement in his voice. Then, more seriously, he said, “I mean it though. We’re on the same team.”
Peggy peered from behind a branch of a fig tree. Her feet were caught up in sprouts of baby figs that seemed to be growing like stalagmites from the bottom of a cave.
She caught her balance and said to Finley, “Can you find anything out about a guy named Leonard that lives at 1311 Middle Street on Sullivan’s Island?”
“Got a last name?”
Peggy said, “If I did, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone when you called.”
“Oh,” Finley replied, “Who is he?”
“I spoke with him about the murders, and he knew enough to creep me out.”
Peggy didn’t mention the computer program or the conversation she had with Leonard about Bobby Touro. How could she with
out incorporating her own actions?
“Huh,” Finley said. “Give me an hour.”
The call disconnected as Peggy crossed through Leonard’s grassy yard and climbed the wooden stairwell that led to his front door. In the driveway, she could see the Porsches were indeed identical models, the Cayenne S in black, with matching black interiors. Shimmering in the sun, their sameness made her question why Leonard would need two of them.
Three metal chairs on the expansive front porch surrounded a table holding a small flowering cactus. Cupping her hands to block the glare, she pushed her face into a window to the right of the front door and looked straight through the house to the Atlantic Ocean on the other side of it. Nothing existed between Peggy and the ocean except for the spotless glass of the windows. She could see seagulls running in the surf. The main living area of the home spread across the view and opened to a large pool from three different locations. Modern furniture sat starkly among few personal items.
She moved down the porch to see into the house from a different vantage point. A lone piece of art hung on a stark wall, illuminated elaborately. Clearly important to Leonard, given the scarcity of wall hangings anywhere else she could see, she zoomed in with her phone’s camera and took a picture of it.
Looking through the room and out the back windows of the house, she saw at least twenty lounge chairs and half as many tables circling a pool. A wide stairwell to the side of a small changing house led down to grass until stepping stones took over and led to the sandy beach. Peggy forced herself to look away from the view for a moment.
It was hard to tell what first caught her attention. Maybe it was the motion of the golf cart as it rounded the corner to enter Leonard’s driveway. Or perhaps the barely audible sound of tires crunching on sand and tiny stones that found her ears between gusts of the slight ocean breeze. Panic coursed through her body as she looked everywhere for Leonard. With nobody in sight, the golf cart that wasn’t there when she’d climbed Leonard’s front stairs terrified her.