by Hugh Dutton
Alexandra. His stomach burned as if he had swallowed a live coal whenever he attempted to acknowledge that someone had actually dared to perpetrate this ultimate of trespasses against a member of his family. Had subjected his entire family to this nightmare. That burning hole in his gut demanded vicious, ruthless consequences for the miscreant who stole his daughter.
Obsessing over vengeance had become his anchor to sanity. Any effort to absorb the idea that Alexandra was gone, gone forever, exposed a cold empty spot deep within him and a continuous nagging worry that he had somehow missed an opportunity. But what? He’d given her everything she asked for, everything a daughter could want, everything he never had himself.
The first audible rumble of thunder rattled the glass-top table as the conflicting shore winds wrestled over which direction the storm would turn. He ignored the crackles of lightning, just as he ignored these indefinable emotions he could not rationalize, instead devoting his thoughts to securing suitable retribution for her death and protecting Nicolas. Which had grown ever more crucial with her gone. Not only would another scandal be more than the family name could withstand, he did not think Anna would survive. Should anything happen to her remaining child, Leo would have to commit her to a psychiatric facility or put her down like some crazed animal. If that added up to destroying Brady Spain, so be it. Much of his unresolved anger had begun finding its way to Spain anyway, this young nobody who would defy Leo Burgess.
He also recognized the need to do something to snap Anna out of her despair, and soon, before sanity slipped away from her. As if the brutal murder of her daughter was not enough to bear, the media, and even some of the investigating authorities, had hinted of multiple dalliances in Alexandra’s past, of a lewd, loose lifestyle. Leo refused to hear such defamation, but Anna listened, and it devastated her.
Perhaps a community cookout around their pool would provide some sense of normalcy for Anna; allow her to play the hostess and accept condolences from the many people who cared. It would be good for the whole family to socialize, ensure that their people regarded them as sympathetic figures. He felt certain Alexandra would approve of exploiting the opportunity to gain public sentiment. So plan it for Labor Day, just a few days hence. Though it had never been an annual event, he had thrown Labor Day parties often enough for it to be in good taste, perhaps even laudable.
Leo sighed. He missed the days when outsmarting the negotiators on the other side of the table consumed him, instead of his family. He heard the telephone in his office ringing, so he grunted himself up and out of the too-low settee in the Florida room and went inside to answer.
By the time he made his way to his desk, the ringing stopped, but he picked up and accessed his voice mail. Leo detested people who did not immediately return calls—time was money. Absorbed by his Labor Day plan and the compassionate goodwill it would generate, he never comprehended exactly who it was leaving the message to inform him of Pete Cully’s fatal accident.
He dropped the receiver into its cradle, stunned, sharply struck by how much he had come to depend on the man. He knew their association was nearing its end. Leo could not abide a member of his inner circle whose loyalty to the family was suspect. In fact, he had already instructed his attorney to research the statute of limitations affecting the Pensacola incident. That vulnerability had to be eliminated before he could safely cut Pete loose. So despite his personal sense of loss, Pete’s misfortune had solved a problem for him. But he had wanted to make that move on his timetable, when he felt no further need for Pete’s services. Was there no end to this conspiracy against him?
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
As best Brady could tell, he was the only guy standing around in the plant nursery parking lot who spoke native English, maybe the only English speaker period.
Lots of guys there, though, mostly Hispanics and a few using languages he’d never heard. Must be the unofficial employment office for all the day labor in town. Everyone seemed to be segregating into little nationality cliques, with of course no American section. Or even Filipino for that matter, but what the hell, he wasn’t thrilled with the whole segregation thing anyway. Too similar to how the movies portrayed prison life, and he avoided thinking about anything that reminded him of prison. He picked a deserted corner of the lot to wait, wondering why he had worked so hard to obtain a business degree in computers for this future.
When the JTA truck arrived, the man who got out was short and wiry, dressed in a muscle shirt, camo pants, and a baseball cap. He was very dark-skinned, like the color of French roast coffee, but his features looked different than those of an African black. Brady saw why when the guy adjusted his cap. The upper half of his forehead was much lighter, as if someone had added a heavy shot of cream to the coffee, making for a startling two-tone effect at his hat line. Now that is some serious sun time there, thought Brady. Gave him a pretty good idea of why Terence wanted to know if he was afraid of hard work. He went over and introduced himself.
Martin shook his hand and looked him over critically. “Well, you look like you might survive. This ain’t no job for a whiner, though. Gerry says you’re ready to go to work.”
“Yes, sir,” Brady answered. Dude had a grip like a steam wrench. He looked down at the ropy brown forearm and saw the egg-shaped wads of muscle that flexed and slid with every gesture. Work indeed. Martin waved him into the truck and off they went.
“Know anything about landscaping or lawn maintenance?” Martin asked as he drove, eyes moving back and forth from Brady to the road.
“Nothing except what you learn doing your own,” Brady admitted, still seeing the hungry, disappointed eyes of the remaining hopefuls in the labor pool who watched them drive away.
“Guess that’s as good a start as any,” Martin said. He brought the truck to a halt at a red left-turn signal and looked over at Brady with a grin. “Don’t worry, anyone can use a blower or a shovel or a rake, plenty of stuff. We’ll teach you the rest.
“Here’s the deal,” he went on. The green arrow lit up, and he made his turn onto a four-lane boulevard that Brady didn’t recognize. Couldn’t make out the sun-faded street sign, either. “I can pay you ten an hour, but you gotta bust ass for me to afford it, okay? You’re going on the books as Brady Spain Enterprises, so no withholding. How you handle your taxes is your business, but know it’s gonna be on my books. And not as hourly either, no overtime. You and I will figure it up and book it as a contracted fee. That way I can give you all the work you can stand from sunup to sundown and pay you every day if you want. That’s what Gerry says you need, right?”
Martin waited for Brady’s “yessir,” and then said, “So, that deal work for you?”
Brady worked the math, thinking that ten an hour was pretty rank, but it sure beat hell out of zero. And lots of hours would add up fast. “Yes, sir, I’m in.”
“Cool. ’Bout ten more minutes of driving and we’ll go to work.”
They rode silently for a few minutes, time Brady used to worry over the murder suspect thing like a dog with a new squeaky toy. He broke off that train when it came to him that he ought to know more about what the heck he was doing right then, riding off with a guy he didn’t know on the basis of a referral from another guy he didn’t know other than the say-so of a guy he had only known a month. That sure is a whole lot of blind faith, Brady boy. Okay, ask. “So, where do you know Gerry from?”
“Gerry?” Martin glanced at him, then back at his driving. “He used to be a cop, a good cop. Took pity on a Puerto Rican boy who didn’t know no better than to think gangbangers and drug dealers were the coolest thing going, everything a man could want to be. Gerry didn’t arrest that boy when he probably should have. Worked, too, the boy went straight.”
“You?”
Martin shook his head, gaze fixed on the vehicle ahead of them. “My brother.”
“Oh. Well, that’s a good story. Does your brother work with you?”
“Nah.” Martin rotated his fists on the
steering wheel, the forearm eggs bulging and slithering, his eyes still focused straight ahead. “He’s dead. Just going straight doesn’t mean everybody from that life believes you’re straight. Sometimes the past catches up to you. But he did have that time to get his life right, so he’s with God now. And I owe Gerry Terence for that.”
“Hey, sorry I brought it up,” Brady muttered. He felt like a total fart at a funeral, one with a profound need to change the subject.
“Chaz Martin doesn’t sound Puerto Rican, are you from there?” he said, wincing inwardly as he remembered Maggie and Susan asking him the same thing on his first day in Heron Point. Bet Susan hadn’t asked from embarrassed floundering, though.
“Yep. Born in Ponce, moved here when I was eight.” Chaz smiled. “And Chaz Martin is very damn Puerto Rican if it starts out as Chavez Mart-een. When we moved here, the kids took one look at Chavez and decided to call me Chaz. It stuck. And you can forget anyone saying Mart-een on the mainland. Your ass gonna be Martin.”
“So, then how’d you get JTA for your company name?”
“Stands for Jesus Loves You in Spanish,” Martin answered, glancing over at him. “Ain’t I supposed to be doing the interview here?”
“Well, both of us maybe,” Brady said with a sheepish laugh. He found himself admiring the guy’s positive flow and the palpable self-assurance that seemed to be the source of his easy manner. “I didn’t mean to get too personal.”
“Nah, man, s’cool. Probably good you’re interested, might mean you’ll last more than a day.” He turned left into a cul-de-sac and parked in the circle at the end. “Here we go, first stop on our list.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
To Brady’s surprise, he grew to like his job with Chaz. It was the most exhausting work he had ever done, especially the first two days, before he became accustomed. The labor itself wasn’t difficult or taxing, but the long hours of nonstop hustle in the heat and humidity were. Yet he began to enjoy the physical nature of it all—the honest bone-weariness at day’s end and the simple pleasure of surveying a freshly manicured lawn, when the nostalgic smell of cut grass evoked the endless summer evenings of childhood. And the long drag of each day was offset by the week seeming to fly by in the midst of his wake-work-sleep routine. Best of all, he’d made a good start on his goal of enough money to pay Terence, make good his bounced check, hire a lawyer, or whatever it took to stay out of prison.
His evenings he spent digging through the Internet, compiling and collating every reference to Leo Burgess he could find. Though he saw Maggie’s brother’s help as an unrealistic hope, her suggestion had started him thinking. She was probably right in identifying counter-blackmail as his only ticket out of this. Problem there, he couldn’t imagine finding any secret dirty enough to force Burgess into surrendering his son, which was exactly how the man would measure it. If Brady had pegged Burgess correctly, there could be no greater loss of face than Nick’s arrest for rape.
So concentrate on hunting down the right kind of dope to stir up some controversy for Burgess. Create a little skepticism against that unimpeachable reputation. Then his word versus Leo’s would not be such a slam-dunk. He just needed to raise enough eyebrows to make Burgess unwilling to chance it. Whenever the enormity of the task ahead of him brought on a bout of despair, he reminded himself of what he’d seen during his year on the inside of the automobile business: people didn’t get as rich as Burgess without a few shady deals here and a sleazy cover-up or two there. Just had to find them.
He had considered going to the police and suggesting they investigate Nick for the rape, with an explanation of why. Just tell them of Burgess’s Godfather impersonation, which had to be illegal. Give them the old “where there’s smoke, there’s fire” spiel. But even if they believed him, something he saw as unlikely, it would result in Burgess swearing out his warrant in retaliation. That meant jail time for Brady, regardless of whether or not he got sentenced to it, because he was a long way from saving enough money for any bail bond. He’d have to wait in jail for his trial, and he could not bring himself to walk into a police station and ask for that.
He had an even scarier worry that kept buzzing around his ear like a mosquito that won’t go away. Why hadn’t the police talked to him about Lexy? After Nick’s television spot, they had to, didn’t they? He wanted to believe they just never bought into Nick’s tirade, or that Terence had steered them away from him, but he was haunted by a recurring panic that they were playing a waiting game. Waiting for him to run, or waiting until they built an indestructible case against him. But how, with what evidence? He didn’t do it. Unless the Burgesses supplied the evidence—Brady had witnessed their work firsthand. Though surely Burgess wouldn’t frame Brady for the murder of his daughter at the cost of the real killer going free. Or even Nick, toad that he was. Would they? Yeah, right, more wishful thinking.
So he stayed glued to his laptop, night after night until his back ached and his eyes burned, praying that his skill at accessing just about anything ever put into any database in the world would unearth a silver bullet before his time ran out.
He found plenty of Leo Burgess on the Internet. Copious official records detailing land transactions, some business media articles on the bigger deals. He also came across a few society page mentions, even an architectural feature on Burgess’s beach house. The article only dated back two years, which surprised Brady. He had assumed the mansion in Heron Point to be older. A picture of the previous Burgess home proved they had not exactly been living at the YMCA, though.
The most interesting item of all was an editorial railing against the sale of a particular land tract four years ago. The columnist called on Leo Burgess to abort the sale and donate the land as a preserve. She wrote it in open letter form, reminding Burgess that he already enjoyed more wealth than one man could need, and was it not time for him to give something back to this majestic paradise that had blessed him with such bounty? Over the top, for sure, but Brady liked the passion. He sidetracked long enough to read some more of her stuff.
Her name was Jeanette Voyes, and she was an environmental conscience with tiger teeth. Offshore dumping, wetland eradication, industrial waste, man, she fought it all. Her latest campaign targeted a mysterious silt build-up in the channels between keys. She had written a series on it, describing its deadly effect on marine grasses and the consequential decimation of native fish. It brought to mind a comment Pete had made, about an erosion problem he was fighting. Brady wondered if she might entertain talking to a homeless felon-to-be. Whether or not she could or would help him, her writing sure showed zero indication of being intimidated by Leo Burgess. Maybe he needed to find some tutorial info on oceanography first.
One news item that popped up—because of the Burgess name in the text—snatched his breath away, depressing him to the point of just quitting and giving in to Burgess. It was the local newspaper’s report on the death of Pete Cully. Vehicular homicide, speculated the reporter. Pete had been struck and killed by a drunken motorist as he attempted to cross Shoreline Drive on foot, apparently because of an unspecified mechanical breakdown.
Reading it made him fiercely sad for Pete, and it reemphasized how alone he was. What was the use of this war? He could have his job back, his debts forgiven, and no one around here gave a damn about his character or lack of it. Well okay, he did. Nor could he forget Pete saying something about the “good folks” from Carolina. Like a legacy Brady had to live up to, for some inexplicable reason. Somehow, without having ever discussed it, Brady had sensed that Pete would’ve stood up for him, even against his own employer. Pete had been the closest thing to a friend he’d found in Florida, though he was beginning to consider Chaz one.
As he waded through the tedious torrent of material on Burgess, he often lapsed into dwelling on the last time he saw Pete. Seeing the image of him kicking at J.D.’s tire marks on the lawn and telling Brady about Gerry Terence. Nor had he forgotten the odd look Pete had when he told Brady
he might wind up in a ditch someday. He kept replaying the overheard phone conversation, wondering if he should repeat it to Terence. But Pete’s death was obviously an accident, right? Nobody could arrange murder by drunk driver, could they? Maybe he would slide it into his next meeting with Terence anyway, just to make sure he honored that last request in case Pete meant it. For now, best to keep his head down, work hard, and stay at the research. Somewhere out there, if he dug deep enough, existed a grenade he could roll into Leo Burgess’s tent. And he wasn’t going to quit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Gerry Terence’s horseshit meter had redlined. He never trusted weird timing of supposedly unconnected fluke events, and he damn well would not accept this one. Open and shut that the idiot who blew a point one-eight on the Breathalyzer actually killed Pete, and that guy was going to get a hefty prison sentence to show for it. But why had Pete pulled off the road and walked away from his truck? That question kept Gerry from swallowing the deplorable yet random misfortune theory.
Something happened to put him on the side of the road. Guys like Pete Cully did not run out of gas, and he was capable of repairing most anything, right there on the spot. So Gerry wanted an answer on that breakdown. If it proved to be simply bad luck, maybe he could let it rest. The idea of someone connected to all of the players in a homicide investigation having such a coincidental accident just gave him that familiar old “uhoh, I don’t think so” reflex.