“You sure it was her?”
Dakota huffed. “I’ve got twenty-ten, McClellan. I’m sure. Guess what else?” She sounded like a schoolgirl who couldn’t wait to spill a secret.
“She was with our Wes Harrison?”
“You wish. No, but I got a photo of her. I was working on my tan when she came walking out of the office, so I grabbed my phone and snapped a couple of shots.”
The fatigue from my trip suddenly lifted. Not only was Alice Spence a part-owner of the casino/resort, but here was possible proof that she might be taking a hands-on role in running the place. “That’s great. Anybody notice you?”
“I don’t think so. There was this old geezer nearby that tried to hit on me earlier, but if he saw me he probably thought I was just checking my messages or whatever.”
“Good. These people might be up to something on the shady side of the law, so you be careful snooping around. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“Jeez, McClellan, you’re tugging at my heartstrings. Don’t worry, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
That I didn’t doubt for a second. “When can I see the photos?”
“Hang up. I’m sending them now.”
It only took a minute for Dakota to send the two photos to my phone. The first was sort of blurry but looked a lot like Alice in profile. There was no doubting the second shot. For some reason Alice had glanced over her shoulder toward the pool, and Dakota had nailed it. Alice’s eyes seemed to be focused on something or someone to Dakota’s left, so the chance that she’d spotted Dakota taking the shot seemed slim. I was still studying the photos when my phone rang. Dakota again.
“McClellan, you got the local news on?” She sounded somewhere between excited and agitated.
“No, why?”
“Turn on Channel 7, now!”
I grabbed the remote and pressed the “on” button. It was already tuned to News Team 7 at Ten, Palmetto County’s local NBC affiliate based in Parkersville. The Ken and Barbie anchors had on their serious faces and were repeating the evening’s top story, a drug bust in nearby St. George by the St. George police. A residence located at 124 South 31st Street had been under surveillance for the past few weeks. Local authorities obtained a search warrant and made their move just after six this evening. Inside, officers found evidence of a methamphetamine lab, along with other illegal drugs and paraphernalia.
Arrested at the scene were Caitlin Alexandra Medlin, twenty-two, of Chamblee, Georgia, whose parents reportedly owned the beachfront house; and Whit Tanner Coleman, also twenty-two, of Marianna, Florida. An arrest warrant had been issued for Summer Leigh Tyson, twenty, of the residence, originally from Hollywood, Florida. Other possible arrests were pending.
I watched the young female on-scene reporter interviewing Chief Brian Tolliver, but my mind kept wandering to the night a few weeks ago when Dakota left the note at my camper for me to pass along to J.D. How the hell had she known? My attention snapped back to the footage as a young, dark-haired woman in handcuffs was escorted to a patrol cruiser. Her head was bowed and her face was turned away from the camera, so I couldn’t be certain, but she damn sure resembled the Beamer girl I’d followed to the Palmetto Royale. That answered one question.
“What the hell’s going on, Dakota?” I said when the story wrapped.
“What do you mean?”
“You leave me a note telling J.D. to watch that place. While I’m at the gun range you just happen to show up dressed like a ninja warrior firing a Glock like you were born with it in your fist. That girl they just arrested almost runs my ass off the road, so I follow her to the casino where I find you working a table. What’s your game?”
There was silence for several seconds, unusual considering Dakota’s usually sharp, witty comebacks. “I got no friggin’ game, McClellan,” she finally snapped, reverting to the beach-brawling, tough-girl attitude I’d first encountered outside The Green Parrot.
I was pissed. No way was she playing straight. “Are you a cop?” Damn, now I was saying it.
There was no answer, and then no connection.
Around seven-thirty the next morning tires crunched on the gravel drive outside my camper. I glanced through the window by the dinette table and saw Sergeant J.D. Owens unlimbering his lanky frame from the blue-and-white cruiser parked behind my Silverado.
“Want some coffee?” I said, opening the door before he could knock.
“Yes, sir, thanks.”
I filled another cup and joined him at the table. J.D. grabbed a sugar packet from the bowl and dumped it into his coffee. “Did you hear about the raid last night?”
“Yeah, caught it on the ten o’clock news.”
He stirred his coffee and glanced at me. “That’s why I never got back to you about the tags you wanted me to run. We been watching the place since you tipped me off.”
I nodded. “Anything else you can tell me about the bust, off the record?”
J.D. blew on his coffee and took a sip. “That Medlin girl we arrested graduated last semester from Chipola. Now she’s working at the Palmetto Royale. She’s assistant manager of the gym and also works at the spa as a masseuse.”
J.D. must’ve read the surprise on my face. He held up a hand. “Hey, it’s all on the up-and-up, Mac. We checked it out. She’s got a degree and all.”
“From where?”
He hesitated, brow furrowed. “Some college up in Georgia; I can’t remember the name.”
I took a quick sip of the strong black coffee, trying not to let the excitement I felt inside register on my face. Chamblee, where Beamer girl hailed from, was only a few miles from Alice Spence’s Buckhead neighborhood. Alice held fitness and massage therapist degrees from Atlanta’s Gwinnett College branch. It wasn’t too much of a stretch that Beamer girl had somehow connected with Alice through her web pages and landed work at the Palmetto Royale Casino & Resort. But why the meth lab and the other drugs? How did that fit into the picture?
“You know your cousin Dakota works at the casino?”
J.D. flushed a little. “Yeah, she told me a while back.”
“Does she know the Medlin girl?”
“No, I already asked her that.”
“Anything on the other two, that Coleman guy or the missing girl?”
“Whit Coleman is Caitlin Medlin’s boyfriend, from what we could find out. He’s got no connection to the casino as far as we know. But get this: he’s a student at Chipola, majoring in criminal justice.”
“No crap?”
“Yeah. And that Tyson girl we’re looking for? She’s a student at Chipola too, full-time. She’s up here from south Florida on some sort of scholarship, studying to be a teacher.”
“What about her parents?”
“She was raised by a single mother who works as a hairdresser. The father hasn’t been in the picture for years.”
“Does the Tyson girl belong to the Avalon?”
“Yes, sir, it’s registered in her name.”
“Does she work?”
“Not that we could find out.”
“How the hell does a twenty-year-old student with no job afford a late-model Avalon?”
J.D. shrugged. “Selling drugs? I don’t know, unless she’s got some rich relatives back home.” He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I gotta run; I’m on duty at eight. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Welcome. Hey, one more question.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Dakota’s a student at Chipola, right?”
“Yes, sir, part-time, I think.”
“What’s she studying?”
J.D.’s brow wrinkled. “You know what? I never asked her.”
Later that morning I called Frank, ready to bring him up to speed on everything that had gone down the past couple of days. No answer at the office or on his cell, so I left a message for him to call me when he got the chance. I was also eager to know if he’d found any connection between Lawrence and David Garrett.
That evening I called Kate on her cell phone. She’d been recuperating at her parents’ home for about a week now, and we’d talked three or four times. But with my trip to Atlanta and the meth lab bust, time had gotten away from me. I hoped she wasn’t pissed that I hadn’t checked in for a couple of days.
She wasn’t. In fact, she was in great spirits. She’d seen her family physician that morning and had been given a clean bill of health to return to her job, providing she took things easy and didn’t overexert herself. Kate had talked with Linda Gillman in the afternoon and had made arrangements to be back on the job the following Monday. She planned on spending Thursday and Friday in Destin and returning to St. George Saturday evening. At Kate’s invite I jumped at the chance to grill a couple of steaks at her place to celebrate her return.
Thursday morning I got up at daylight, made coffee, and walked to the campground store. I fed the Parkersville Independent paper box four quarters and retraced my steps. I sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded the paper. When I saw the front-page headline I almost choked on my coffee:
Wanted Woman’s Car Discovered in South Florida Canal.
CHAPTER 22
It was a brief article with few details, arriving as late-breaking news and giving the local newsroom just enough time to throw together a quick piece to make the morning deadline. Thursday night around nine o’clock a driver traveling east on the Everglades Parkway had spotted the red glow of taillights just beneath the surface of the swampy waters that skirt much of both sides of the four-lane highway. The passerby called 911. Florida Highway Patrol troopers responded and investigated. A wrecker was called to the scene, and a blue late-model Toyota Avalon was hauled from the water. There was front-end damage and airbags had deployed. Both front doors were ajar, but there was no sign of a driver or passengers. A search for the possible victim or victims was underway.
Records showed the automobile was registered to Summer Leigh Tyson, twenty, of Hollywood, Florida, currently residing in the Panhandle town of St. George. Authorities stated that an outstanding arrest warrant for drug charges had recently been issued for Miss Tyson. End of story.
A black-and-white photo of Summer accompanied the article, a posed head-and-shoulders shot probably taken from a high school yearbook. She was a very pretty young lady with large, bright eyes and shoulder-length dark hair.
I booted up my computer and did some quick research. Better known as Alligator Alley, the Everglades Parkway runs almost due west to east across the southern end of Florida, from Naples on the Gulf of Mexico to near Ft. Lauderdale on the Atlantic. The western portion crosses Big Cypress Swamp, and the central and eastern parts traverse the northern reaches of Florida’s famed Everglades. Given that the road is an almost straight shot of eighty miles, accidents are common due to excessive speed, soft shoulders, and the nearby proximity of the swamps. Run-ins with the abundant wildlife crossing from one side to the other are all too common.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and reread the newspaper article. Two scenarios kept popping up in my mind. First, poor Summer, scared and on the lam, had swerved off the road trying to avoid a gator or deer or some other critter and wound up in the swamp. There, perhaps knocked unconscious from the collision and not wearing a seat belt, she’d possibly drowned and floated out one of the doors opened by the impact, likely becoming gator bait.
Because the airbags had deployed, my second theory was that Summer had purposely damaged the car and staged the accident, catching a pre-planned ride with a cohort who might’ve followed her all the way from St. George or had agreed to meet her at the scene of the “accident.” From there they were most likely headed for some small airport where Summer would use a fake ID and passport, charter a plane, and sky out to some safe haven in the Caribbean until things settled down. Chances were good that she was already soaking up rays on some island paradise while sipping a fancy cocktail decorated with a tiny umbrella.
That is, of course, if she wasn’t now being digested in the belly of a bull gator according to scenario one.
My gut told me the gators got cheated out of one hell of a tasty meal this time.
The boss man called just after eight with some more interesting news. David Jarrod Garrett was Lawrence Garrett’s nephew, son of Lawrence’s late older brother from whom he’d inherited the realty and development business. Puzzle pieces were beginning to lock into place. My drawing of circles and arrows was now making way too many connections to be coincidental. I wished like hell I hadn’t thrown the damn thing away.
I brought Frank up to date on my new info, including the Atlanta trip and the recent drug bust and arrests. He promised to keep digging on his end. “Oh, one more thing,” I said before we ended the conversation.
“What’s that?”
“Where are the diamonds Kate found?”
“At the bank in my safe deposit box. I didn’t think it would be wise for Katie to have them around.”
“Good thinking. What about your FBI friend? Is he okay with this?”
“No problem there, Mac. He’s been retired for a couple of years. He said he’d keep it under wraps and help out any way he can if we need him. He did say we’d need to turn the diamonds and paperwork over to the Feds after this shindig is over. With the finders-keepers law, Katie might be entitled to the cut diamonds, but the roughs are a no-no.”
“Good. By the way, we might need those rocks for collateral.”
“Collateral? What... never mind. I’m not even going to ask.”
I laughed. “You’ll be the first to know, Frank.”
Friday morning’s Independent updated the Summer Tyson story with an interesting twist. Divers braving the alligator- and moccasin-infested swamps had discovered a handbag belonging to Ms. Tyson. A shoe found in the same general area was also thought to belong to the missing woman. The search was continuing.
Meanwhile, authorities at Miami International and other area airports had been alerted, but so far no boarding passengers fitting the young woman’s description had turned up. She’d also failed to contact her mother at home, and local reporters described the hardworking single mother as “distraught.” Maybe I was wrong, but if the accident was staged it would’ve been easy enough to toss the handbag and shoe into the drink to add more weight to the theory that Summer had drowned or been taken by gators. I was still betting that Summer was relaxing on some Caribbean beach rather than turning to mush inside the innards of a some overgrown water lizard.
Also making the front-page news was a story stating that Caitlin Medlin and Whit Coleman had appeared before a judge and both had been released on bail. Twenty-five thousand and fifteen thousand dollars respectively. Neither individual had a prior arrest record. Though Medlin and Coleman denied others were involved, local authorities were continuing the investigation and search for additional, unnamed suspects.
Saturday morning I drove to the Piggly Wiggly supermarket in Parkersville and bought a couple of two-inch-thick filets mignons and a nice bottle of Kendall-Jackson Cabernet Sauvignon, Kate’s favorite red wine. I also picked up a fancy bouquet of mixed flowers I thought she’d like. I wanted her welcome home to be special.
Kate called at five o’clock to let me know she was home and asked me to come over around six. That would give her enough time to rest and clean up for what we both hoped would be an enjoyable evening together.
I was there at six sharp, steaks, wine, and flowers in hand. Kate thanked me for the flowers and wine, and greeted me with a light kiss. I decided that had more to do with residual pain than a less-than-enthusiastic welcome. She’d lost a few pounds—something she didn’t need. She could use a little fattening up, I decided. The steaks, double-baked potatoes, salad, and wine would be a nice way to begin. There was still some light bruising on her forehead above the left eye and on her left cheek. But the swelling was gone and she looked great to me.
Kate must’ve been reading my mind. “I’m still a little sore, Mac,” she said as we sat on the b
ack deck enjoying a glass of wine while waiting for the coals to reach cooking temp. She smiled and squeezed my arm. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m afraid any hanky-panky will have to wait a few more days, dang it.”
I couldn’t resist. I leaned in close to Kate’s face and focused on her mouth. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you know.”
“What on earth?” she said, pretending to look shocked. The gentle squeeze on my arm turned into a hard pinch. “You are incorrigible, MacArthur McClellan.”
After supper we sat together on the glider enjoying the cool evening air on the deck and listening to the waves breaking on the beach several blocks away. I switched to Dewar’s on the rocks while Kate was sipping the last of the wine. I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen, but somehow our conversation took a detour to the case. I gave Kate a quick rehash of the latest information Frank and I had dug up. “Oh, I almost forgot.” I set my Scotch on a table beside the glider and got up. “Be right back.”
I hurried out to my truck and grabbed the Thursday and Friday editions of the Parkersville Independent and handed them to Kate when I returned. “I thought you might like to read these later.”
Kate glanced at the papers for a moment and suddenly drew in a sharp breath. She jumped up and flipped on the outside light, staring at the paper under the yellow glow of the insect bulb. I was by her side in a flash. She pointed to the photo of Summer Tyson. “Dang, Mac, this looks like the brunette in the fight that J.D. broke up behind The Green Parrot!”
Any doubts that Dakota hadn’t been playing straight with me were gone now. Kate was certain the girl on the beach cat-fighting with the “scruffy blonde” was the missing Summer Leigh Tyson. I resisted the urge to drive over to Dakota’s apartment for a face-to-face confrontation and headed for home instead. I didn’t feel up to talking to her tonight anyway. Didn’t want to spoil the nice evening I’d just spent with Kate. But I damn sure intended to have a friendly little chat with her ASAP.
I followed 15th Street around the big curve where it changes directions from running north to east, passed the Methodist church, and turned left onto the gravel road that runs through Gulf Pines Campground. Being Memorial Day weekend, the campground was packed. Several groups were still gathered around campfires. I pulled into my drive and parked the Silverado. Grabbing the zippered case holding the .357 that had become my constant traveling companion, I headed across the yard toward my Grey Wolf. I stood on the first step while I fiddled with the keys in the dark. The streetlight in front of my site had burned out almost two weeks ago, and Jerry still hadn’t gotten around to having it replaced. I made a mental note to see him about it in the morning.
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