I hung back, watching. They went all the way to the end of that block, and then suddenly they split up. With a wave, Zach kept going forward and the two girls turned right.
I let him walk on, wondering if he would even remember me if he accidentally saw me. He hadn’t been very friendly the night we met, and from what I recalled, they had all been pretty far into the margaritas. Taking the chance he wouldn’t know who I was, I set off after him, leaving about a block between us.
Up ahead, I saw him stop and then go into a bar. Wondering if I should be pleased or disappointed, I hesitated at the cross street, knowing Jodi and Fawn might still be close enough to spot me if they happened to turn and look back.
I glanced to the right, and sure enough they were only about halfway up the block, standing at what looked like the door of a private home. I watched as Jodi rapped on the door.
I stepped back, looking for a place to duck if they came this way. There was a jewelry store three doors down, and I knew I could go in there if necessary. As I waited to see what would happen with the two of them, the street sign happened to catch my eye.
Ketch Alley.
Heart racing, I had to wonder if the door they were knocking on was 3344 Ketch Alley—the very same address Dianne had gone to when Eli was tailing her!
I chanced another peek. Jodi and Fawn were gone.
I took a few steps up the road, checking out the numbers on the doors. Sure enough, it was the three thousand block of Ketch Alley. I had no doubt it was the same address.
I wasn’t sure what to think or do next. A part of me was literally sick to my stomach, terrified Jodi wasn’t at all the person I had thought her to be. I was usually such a good judge of character, but this time I had blown it. The police back in Cocoa Beach suspected “one of Stella’s children” of Eli’s shooting.
Could Jodi be the one?
There were actions I could take. I walked back down the hill toward the main street and then hiked quickly to the corner where the cabbie was supposed to meet me. Sure enough, he was there, and when he spotted me in the crowd he gave me a big smile and a wave.
“Over here, missy!”
I got into the back of the cab and had him bring me to Mike’s Marina. Once there, I asked him to wait, and then I ran onboard and dug into the suitcase full of Eli’s equipment. One item was an official-looking—but completely fake—FBI badge. I changed into slacks and a shirt, tucked the badge in my pocket, then removed from Eli’s file one of the current photos of Dianne. I didn’t think about the laws I might be breaking by impersonating a federal agent. I didn’t want to know.
Back outside, I had the cabdriver take me back to Ketch Alley going the other direction so we could pass the bar where Zach was. As we drove slowly past, I spotted him still there, now flanked on either side by Jodi and Fawn.
“Turn here,” I said, wondering if I dared do this so soon. I knew I should wait until they were completely gone from the area before I followed this lead, but I didn’t have the heart to wait. I felt sick inside.
I paid the cabbie a big bonus yet again, and this time I resisted his offer to meet me somewhere later for another ride.
“Thank you, though,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Once he had driven away, I straightened my shirt, stepped up to the door at 3344 Ketch Alley, and knocked. I had no idea who might greet me on the other side, but I knew it was a necessary step.
After a moment, I heard some noise inside, and then the door swung open.
“Can I help you?” a man asked.
He looked to be in his twenties, with frizzy blond hair and a few days’ growth of beard. I didn’t recognize him.
“Hey,” I said with a smile, trying to appear relaxed. “I’m looking for Jodi. Is she still here?”
He didn’t respond at first but merely looked at me, eyes squinting. “Yeah, right,” he said finally. “What are you—a cop? Get a warrant or get out of my face.”
He started to shut the door. Thinking fast, I blocked it with my foot and then reached into my pocket and pulled out my fake badge.
“FBI,” I said in a much stronger voice, flashing the badge. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Thirty-Five
He hesitated for a moment, a bemused expression on his face.
“Sure,” he said finally, stepping back and holding out one arm. “Come on in.”
Already, I was kicking myself for the stupid FBI ruse. It could have been so much simpler than that. All I had needed to do was tell the truth: I was a private investigator and I wanted to know what the two young women had been doing here, not to mention what his association was with Dianne Streep. I was just so flustered by the Jodi connection that I hadn’t been thinking clearly.
He motioned down a narrow hall, so I went first, emerging into a living room that looked more like the local copy store than someone’s home. A large desk dominated the place, with a row of printers and copiers along the wall, and mountains of paper and boxes in every available space. He pointed to any empty metal folding chair, so I sat. He went around the desk and took his office chair.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
My mind raced.
“I need some information,” I told him, “about the two young women who were just in here. Can you tell me what business they had with you?”
He stared at me for a moment and then began rummaging through a desk drawer. He pulled something out and tossed it toward me. It landed in my lap.
I picked up the item to see a vinyl case. When I opened it, I recognized it as a duplicate of the FBI badge I had flashed at the door.
Click.
I looked up to see him pointing a gun straight at me.
“Don’t try to kid a kidder,” he said. “I got a whole box of those things in the back. Who are you and what do you really want?”
I swallowed hard, wishing I had told someone where I was going and what I would be doing here.
“Sorry,” I said evenly, staring at the barrel of the gun. “You’re right, I’m not FBI. My name is Callie Webber, and I’m a private investigator. I’m here investigating the shooting of a man named Eli Gold.”
“Don’t know him.”
“He came here on a case of his own several months ago,” I said. “He followed a woman to your door. Today, I was tracking someone related to the case, and they also came to your door. Somehow, that tells me you might be able to assist me with my investigation.”
“Why should I?”
I blinked, meeting his eyes. They were cold and hard and empty, and I had no doubt he was perfectly capable of pulling the trigger.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because you’re the kind of guy who likes to help people out.”
He seemed to consider his options. A few moments later, he relaxed his wrist so that the gun pointed up toward the ceiling.
“Prove it,” he said, “and I might help you.”
“Prove what?”
“That you’re a legitimate investigator.”
I dug out a business card and slid it across the desk.
“My license numbers are on the back,” I said. “You can verify them through any of those state licensing bureaus.”
Much to my surprise, he did just that. While continuing to hold the gun with one hand, he used the other to type, pulling up each state on my list that offered online verification and entering my numbers there.
“All right,” he said finally. “You’re clear for Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina. Guess that’s good enough. Ask me what you wanna know, and then I’ll tell you what the answers will cost you.”
“Fair enough. What were those two girls doing here?”
He chewed on his upper lip.
“Fifty bucks. And this is completely off the record.”
I reached into my wallet and counted out two twenties and a ten. I set the bills on his desk and he used his free hand to pick them up and fold them into his shirt pocket.
&n
bsp; “Getting ID for the younger one,” he said. “She’s twenty-one, you know, but she left her license at home in the States, so they needed me to print her a new one to use while she’s here on vacation.”
I nodded.
“Is that your business?” I asked. “Printing fake IDs for underage kids so they can get into bars?”
“My business is my business,” he said sharply. “Are we done here?”
“Not quite. I need to reach into my bag.”
“Go ahead,” he said.
I moved slowly, not wanting him to think I might be pulling out a gun myself. My fingers touched the photo of Dianne, and I pulled it out and handed it to him.
“What was your business with her?” I asked.
He studied the picture and then looked at me.
“Five hundred dollars,” he said. “I’ll have to refresh my memory.”
I considered my options and then looked in my wallet.
“All I have is two-eighty,” I said, counting it out. “And I need ten of that to get back to St. John.”
He twirled the gun on one hand then pointed it at me again.
“Give me your wallet,” he said.
I handed it over and he looked inside, counting the bills. He removed all but a ten and then tossed it back at me.
“Passports,” he said. “She came here last spring and bought some passports.”
“Under what name?” I asked.
He stared at me before turning to his computer screen. After a few moments of typing, one of the printers beside him whirred to life. When the paper shot out, he grabbed it, looked at it, and then handed it over to me.
It held the images of three passports—one with Dianne’s photo, one of Earl, and one of Larry.
Larry?
I was so stunned I had to force myself to look again. But, yes, it was the very same Larry who had come over to the house with Jodi a couple times, the one who worked as an insurance adjuster at the archaeological dig site.
On the passports, however, they were listed as Beth, Truman, and Peter Magee, and their address was a town in Montana.
“The real Magees died in a boating accident here a few years ago,” he said. “When that lady came asking for passports for her, her husband, and her grown son, it seemed like a good fit. I think the son could pass for thirty-nine, don’t you?”
“Maybe,” I whispered, studying Larry’s face in the photo. He had that same familiar smile he’d worn the night we met. Was he really their son? My head felt as though it were spinning.
I folded the paper and tucked it in my bag, hoping this man would now let me leave.
“Thank you very much,” I said, scooting to the front of my seat. “You’ve been a big help.”
He twisted his wrist so that the gun was pointed again at me.
“Two hundred seventy for the info, not the paper,” he said. “I need it back.”
Nodding, I pulled it from my bag. He took it from me, dropped it into his metal trash can, and then lit a match and flung it in on top. I felt sure he expected some dramatic sort of flame to shoot up, but instead the match just sat there, very slowly catching the paper on fire.
“How do I know you won’t go to the nearest police station and tell them all about my little side business?” he asked as we watched it burn.
Our eyes met.
“I posed as a federal agent to get in your door,” I replied sheepishly. “I guess that makes us about even.”
He smiled and then he surprised me by putting the gun back in the drawer and sliding it shut. We both stood. He walked me to the door, opened it for me, and then he reached out and shook my hand.
“Nice doing business with you,” he said. “Do me a favor and don’t come back.”
Thirty-Six
I jogged all the way to the marina, and it was nearly six by the time I arrived at the boat. Afraid that I didn’t have enough gas to get back to St. John, I knew I would have to pull up and buy some. In my mind, I could just see the resulting explosion when I crashed the boat into the gas pump.
I wasn’t sure where the gas cap even was, exactly, so before I went to the pumps and made an idiot out of myself, I dug out the owner’s manual and turned to the chapter on “Gasoline.” Much to my surprise, I realized the boat had two tanks. From the indicated gauge, I saw that the first tank was, indeed, almost empty, but the second tank was completely full. I flipped the switch that would allow the boat to pull from the second tank, and then I put away the book and started up the engine.
As I steered out of the slip, I said a silent prayer for safety. I was able to make it from the marina without incident, and I followed my compass and my sense of direction to go back the way I had come. It wasn’t quite as easy as I thought it would be, and I felt an odd sense of relief when I spotted the Enigma up ahead. It was going faster than it had before, and I settled myself in far behind it, hoping to follow it all the way home.
At the speed we were going, the ride took about half an hour. When the Enigma neared the marina, I was a bit hesitant, because I certainly didn’t want to be spotted here at the end after managing to hide from them all afternoon. Instead, I pulled to a stop well before the entrance and just idled there for a while. I didn’t know how long it would take for them to get off of their boat and go away, but I allotted ten minutes before I proceeded as slowly as I could into the marina myself. At least the Enigma docked at the opposite end from where we did. Perhaps even if they were still there, our paths would not come close to crossing.
I found the right slip and slowed further. Hoping I would be a bit better at the maneuvering this time around, I held my breath and concentrated on popping into neutral at just the right moment. The boat glided into place without a hitch, thank goodness.
I set the bumpers and tied the ropes just as they had been before. Then I gathered my things, locked the cabin, and hurried to the clinic. According to the receptionist, Tom was with the doctor but would be out soon. I sat in the now-empty waiting room and caught my breath, flipping through a new issue of Guidepost magazine. I was just reading an interesting article when Tom finally emerged, his hands neatly covered with flesh-colored bandages. I helped out by writing the check for his treatment and taking the two prescriptions the nurse was handing over.
From there, we went to the nearest pharmacy and had the prescriptions filled—one for pain, and one for antibiotics. Tom said they had also given him a tetanus shot at the office.
“Are you okay?” I asked once we finally left the drug store, bag in hand.
“Barely,” he grunted. “I think I’d like to go home and have one of those pain pills and take a nap.”
“You’re hurting pretty badly, aren’t you?” I asked.
He nodded, and I slipped an arm around him, wishing I could bear the pain for him.
The sun was setting by the time we reached Stella’s house. I was glad to see that Jodi’s car wasn’t there. I didn’t think I could deal with her at the moment.
Tom took a pain pill as soon as we walked in the door, and when I went into his room to check on him 20 minutes later, he looked to be sound asleep, sprawled across the covers.
I stood watching him for a minute. There was something about the sight of him there, so helpless, so vulnerable, that I found endearing. He had climbed onto the bed with his shoes still on, so I tiptoed over and tried to pull them off. The second shoe stuck a bit, which seemed to make him stir.
“Callie,” he whispered, his eyes only half open.
“Hey,” I said, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead. “Your pills working?”
“Oh, yeah. Pain’s all gone now.”
The smile on his face told me he was somewhere off in la la land.
“Good. You get some sleep.”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered. “You gotta come closer.”
I leaned down to hear him whisper.
“There’s blood on my hands,” he said.
I looked at the bandages, which w
ere clean and dry.
“You’re okay, Tom. Go to sleep now.”
“No, you don’t understand,” he said, trying to sit up. “There’s blood on my hands. There always will be.”
I pushed his shoulders back, and then I leaned forward and kissed him again.
“Shhh,” I said, until he closed his eyes. He fell back to sleep almost immediately. “Just a little nap. That’s all you need.”
I tiptoed from the room, hoping he would stay down for at least an hour. Back out at the car, I dialed Sergeant Ruhl. I told him I was on the cell and couldn’t talk, but that we needed to meet.
As he was on his way to pick up his wife from church choir practice, he asked if I would mind meeting him there. He described his car and where it would be parked.
I left a note for Tom that said simply, “Had to run out. Call me on the cell if you wake up.” Then I drove to Abraham’s church, following the simple directions he had dictated to me. Sure enough, by the time I got there, his car was parked out in front of the church. As I found a spot for myself and then walked to his vehicle, I could hear the rousing music coming from inside.
“Hi,” I said, slipping into the passenger seat. “They sound really good.”
“It warms the heart,” he agreed. “And my beautiful wife, she sings like an angel.”
I settled into the seat, looking out in front at the dark street.
“Where are your children?” I asked.
“Home with my wife’s mother. We got about ten minutes before the choir finishes here. What’s up?”
I took a deep breath, wondering even where to begin.
“I am completely confused,” I said. “I learned some things today that have totally thrown me for a loop.”
“Go on.”
“Do you know Stella’s daughter, Jodi?”
“Ah, yes. Jodi. Nice girl. She’s been coming here to the island since she was just a baby.”
A Quarter for a Kiss Page 24