by Danny Lopez
I put my signal on, got into the right lane, and slowed down. Just as I was about to pull over, the Sarasota County Sheriff’s deputy cruiser sped up on my left so we were side by side. Two seconds later, it took off—fast.
CHAPTER 11
IN THE MORNING, I went to find Joaquin del Pino to see what I could get out of him on Beach City Holdings, Inc. It was early. Court wouldn’t start for at least another hour. I went straight to his office. There were already four people in the small reception area, one of them with a bandaged head like a cartoon character. Del Pino’s secretary asked me to wait in the conference room. That was promising.
Joaquin del Pino and I went back a ways. He had been the key to my first case—if you could call it that. He was not an easy person to get information out of, but he had proved to be an ethical lawyer. Anyone with high standards and respect for procedure was not easy to crack. He was loyal to his clients. My hope was that since we now had a little history, he would be forthcoming with information and help me figure out about Liam Fleming’s work. From what Bob Fleming had said, there had to be millions of dollars in property at stake. People kill for a lot less than that.
The conference room had a big long mahogany table and fourteen nice high-back chairs that made the room look tiny. I sat in a chair near the door. Not a minute later, del Pino stormed in. He was as short and as snappy as I remembered him. He wore pressed blue suit pants and a nice light-yellow Brooks Brothers shirt and a burgundy tie. Everything about him screamed lawyer—even his cologne.
“Dexter Vega,” he said in a tone that let me know he was not particularly pleased to see me. “What is it now?”
I smiled. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
He pulled at his shirtsleeve and glanced at his silver watch. “I have five minutes. Use them wisely.”
I stood. “Liam Fleming.”
“Yes?”
“His company, Beach City Holdings. You managed the legal paperwork.”
“That’s correct.”
“His body was found two Fridays ago floating in the Intracoastal around Osprey.”
“I’m aware of Mr. Fleming’s passing.”
“The cops declared it an accident, but his father isn’t so sure. So he hired me to check it out.”
He raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re an investigator now?”
“I’m doing him a favor,” I said. “But the thing is, I’m kind of beginning to agree with the old man.”
“Get to the point.”
“Beach City Holdings. What can you tell me about it?”
Del Pino didn’t hesitate. He took in a quick breath and spilled a handful of beans. “About four years ago, Liam Fleming came to my office and hired me to draw up the paperwork for his corporation. In that time, he’s purchased a number of real estate properties in Sarasota County. He brought me contracts to look over for him. That’s it.”
“What about his partner?”
“Terrence Oliver.”
“Terrence Oliver,” I mumbled to myself, thinking back to Keith telling me about Liam’s partner. “You ever meet him?”
“Mr. Oliver? No. I never had the pleasure.”
“You have his contact info?”
He smiled. “I’ll have my assistant give you a copy of the corporate papers. They’re public record.”
“Geez,” I said. “You are such a lawyer.”
He didn’t flinch. “Will that be all?”
“What did they do?”
“About what?”
“For money. What’s the purpose of the business?”
“I just told you. They invested in properties.”
“What kind of properties?”
“Houses, land.”
“They flipped them?”
He shook his head. “Just bought. Mostly properties in distress. They’re all rented as far as I know.”
“Financed?”
“Cash. Every single one.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. A dozen, maybe more.”
I stared at him thinking, trying to figure out Liam’s game.
“Anything else?” he said and again pulled at his shirtsleeve and glanced at his watch.
“Not for now.”
He turned and walked out of the conference room. I heard him address his assistant as he made his way out of the office.
After about fifteen minutes, his assistant, a nice Latino lady with long dark hair and a medium-length skirt, came in with an envelope. “Mr. Vega,” she said pleasantly. “The documents you requested from Mr. del Pino. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
I took the yellow folder from her and felt its weight. Light. “I’m good. Thank you very much.”
The file on Beach City Holdings gave me very little information. The papers were just the articles of incorporation and yearly minutes, which said nothing other than offer proof of filing of minutes and payment to the State as required by Florida law. Liam Fleming and Terrence Oliver were listed as officers: president and vice president. No one else. The only address was del Pino’s office and Liam’s little cottage on Midnight Pass Road.
At least Bob Fleming wasn’t lying about Liam’s business. And it also explained the map with the red Sharpie marks in Liam’s bedroom. Not much to go on except a name: Terrence Oliver.
When I left del Pino’s office, I checked my car. I still had time in my parking space, so I crossed Main Street to the Sheriff’s office to try and get a hold of Detective Fenton Kendel. The desk sergeant called him. I waited. Across the room a man was arguing with a woman, probably his wife. Something about their kid. Seemed he had been arrested the week before and had some fines to pay. A female deputy walked over and told them to keep it cool. The three of them walked outside.
I watched the desk sergeant pick up his phone after a couple of minutes. He gave a couple of yessirs, nodding his head like a good soldier, and hung up. “Vega,” he called. “Detective Kendel’s off today.”
“Wasn’t he off yesterday?”
He narrowed his eyes. “And he’s off today.”
I shrugged and walked out of the building. The female deputy was having a heated one-way conversation with the man and woman who had been arguing earlier. They were like children being scolded by their mother. I looked at the sky. Clear blue. It was going to be another scorcher. Last night’s rain and the heat were turning the air into a steam bath. I broke into a sweat just walking to my car.
CHAPTER 12
I DROVE DOWN to Siesta Key. The island at midmorning had a unique quality of expectation. Last night’s party had been cleaned up and the tables set for another long day and night of the same. Traffic was light. I passed a few joggers and a small group of bikers decked out in spandex and caps pedaling their speed bikes in a tight group. At the Village, things were somber. A short Latino-looking man was sweeping the front of the Old Salty Dog. An elderly couple were walking their pugs and peeking into the window of the Siesta T’s souvenir shop. Except for Another Broken Egg and The Village Café, the other restaurants were closed.
Sun worshippers were taking advantage of the morning weather and slowly making their way to the beach in flip-flops, carrying their fold-out chairs and umbrellas. At the curve where Ocean Boulevard turned left onto Beach Road, I had to stop for half a dozen tourists on a Segway tour. To my right, just past the Terrace—an older, seven-story apartment building—I could see a group of people gathered at the end of Beach Road. They were holding signs: Keep Beach Road Public.
The car behind me honked. The Segways had passed. I started south on Beach Road, passed the old two-story beachfront condos to my right and a few vintage Siesta cottages and stucco two-story apartments with white shell and sand driveways that still retained the funky character I always loved about the key. It was a miracle developers hadn’t taken over these places. It made me think of Beach City Holdings. According to Bob Fleming, Liam was buying up properties and holding on to them for when
the time was right. Maybe Beach City Holdings was positioning itself to reshape the future of Siesta Key, build it up toward the sky just like downtown Sarasota had done in the past decade—turn this funky little island into Miami Beach.
This early in the morning, the public beach parking lot was half empty. Somewhere past the atrocious modern pavilion was the Gulf of Mexico with its aquamarine waters, gentle waves lapping against the powdery white sand that prompted journalists to give Siesta Beach the distinguished title of America’s Best Beach, year after year.
I kept going south to Midnight Pass Road, past the entrance to the Sanderling and Turtle Beach, and pulled in to the driveway of Liam Fleming’s cottage.
Everything was just as I had left it: blue VW Golf in the driveway, front door unlocked, magazines and papers strewn all over the place, empty pizza box, dishes in the sink. No one had touched anything. It was clear Jaybird had not been here.
I went into Liam’s bedroom and looked at the map he had on the wall by his desk. I took a few photos of it with my phone. Then I walked out, got in my car, and drove north to the address on Calle Menorca that Tessa had written on the napkin the previous night.
* * *
A large green trash truck was backing up to the dumpster in the alley behind a two-story blue apartment building a block south of the Village. The place was typical 1950s Florida: concrete block, open on the front with stairs on both sides of the building, twelve units: six on the first floor, six on the second, doors at the front, screened porch at the back.
I drove around the block and found a parking space at the corner. Then I made my way back to the building and walked up the steps and knocked on apartment 8.
Tessa opened the door. She wore a Ramones t-shirt that was three sizes too big for her, and nothing else. Her hair was a sexy mess, like she’d just woken up after spending the night at her boyfriend’s house.
She didn’t smile. “I told you not too early.”
“It’s almost noon.”
She squinted at the brightness of the day, then stepped aside to let me through.
Her place was nice, like an Ikea showroom: clean, modern, and accessorized with matching lamps, curtains, rugs, all in pretty pastel colors and paintings of the beach and shells and dolphins.
“Nice place,” I said. “Martha Stewart help you decorate?”
“Shut up, smart-ass.”
“Seriously,” I said. “You can afford this on the Sarasota Herald’s salary?”
“I don’t work for them anymore. I’m a bartender. That’s where the money is.”
“Too bad I’m not young and beautiful.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Is that another joke?”
“A tired one.”
“A misogynistic one.”
I pointed to a chair. “Can I sit?”
“Sure. You want some coffee?”
“Thanks.” I watched her go through the motions in the open kitchen across the room. I couldn’t believe I didn’t remember her from the newspaper. She was pretty, smart, and sharp with the tongue, qualities that would’ve stayed with me for a long time.
She set the coffeepot, ran her hand through her thick dark hair, and leaned on the counter. “Any news?”
“Of Liam’s case?”
“Of Jaybird.”
I shook my head. “There was no sign of him at the cottage. It didn’t look like he’d been back.”
“And what about the other?”
“I don’t know. I might be wrong about that.”
She pursed her lips, then turned and poured the coffee. “Milk and sugar?”
“Black, thanks.”
She came around the counter with two cups. Someone in the apartment next door was making noise, moving furniture, heavy items scraping the terrazzo. The beeping of a trash truck backing up somewhere nearby started and stopped and started again.
“The thing is,” I said, “I still can’t tell if there was foul play.”
“Listen to you,” she said, getting comfortable on the seat across from me, her bare feet resting against the edge of the coffee table. Her toes were painted lavender, just like her fingernails. “You sound like a real PI. Foul play.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just not convinced. But it’s all very murky. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Sure, we can figure this out together.”
I took a short sip of the coffee, hot and strong. I set the cup on the coffee table next to her feet. “The main thing right now is that the cops never found a kayak. So they’re attributing that to a witness. A neighbor. But they didn’t say that in the report.”
“You think the cops deliberately left it out?”
“I doubt it. More likely it was an oversight. All in a day’s work. We’re talking the Sheriff’s office.”
“Amateurs,” she said, rolling her eyes.
I smiled. “What I’m trying to figure out is—who was Liam Fleming?”
Tessa laughed. “You and everyone else.”
“What do you mean?”
“I dated Liam for almost a year. The man’s a mystery. He never really opened up to me, you know?”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s just a guy thing.”
“No,” she said and looked down at her coffee then tilted her head to the side. “It was more than that. Like he was secretive without being secretive.”
“I don’t follow.”
She laughed. “You sound like my therapist.”
“I’m certainly not the one to give you dating advice, but if it helps you to unload …”
She curled her legs under her and to the side. “There’s nothing to unload,” she said quietly and looked past me as she told me in a monotone how she met Liam at the volleyball courts in Siesta Beach two winters ago. They went to the same party at a nice house on North Beach Road. That was also where she met Jaybird. They hit it off and started dating right then. He lived in that little cottage on Midnight Pass Road and didn’t seem to have a job, but every now and then he’d disappear for a whole day or two, or lock himself in his room and work. Other than that, he just hung out at the beach or went out on his kayak or stand-up paddleboard along the Intracoastal. He was into real estate. He was always checking out Zillow and the MLS site. But everyone in Sarasota was into real estate so she didn’t think much of it. He didn’t come across as a realtor. He was laid-back, funny. He had no problem making friends with anyone. And that was part of the disconnect.
“He had friends from different cliques,” she said. “Like there was us, the Siesta Key bums: Jaybird and Cap’n Cody and that whole crew. But he was also friends with these wealthy businessmen and old people who’d been on the key forever.”
“But that’s a good thing, no?”
“Yeah, except he separated everyone. I was his girlfriend so I got to see some of it. But he’d never mix it up. He’d never take Cap’n Cody or Jaybird to a party at a friend’s place in one of those downtown condos or up in Lakewood Ranch.”
“So he didn’t like to mix company.”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe he was embarrassed by them.”
She shook her head. “He didn’t bring his rich friends to the beach either.”
“Maybe he was embarrassed by them.”
She laughed. “Yeah, maybe.”
“So what happened?”
“To us?”
I nodded.
“I don’t know,” she said. “What always happens, I guess. When I got laid off from the paper, I tried freelancing, so I was always on the go. I was desperate, he was like, not a problem in the world. Maybe I resented that he had money and could do whatever he wanted. I don’t know.”
“Most divorces are caused by financial strife,” I said knowingly.
She looked at me and I could see she thought I was talking of myself. She said, “It wasn’t that. I had to work. I wasn’t there to party all the time. We argued about stupid stuff. But I think the main thing that bothered me was that h
e kept me at a distance. I was his Siesta Key girlfriend.”
“You think he had a mainland girlfriend?”
“No.” She laughed. “He wasn’t like that. But I guess I felt I didn’t have the whole of him. Liam’s world was vast, and I was only part of a tiny section of it.”
“So you broke it off.”
She nodded.
“You stay friends?”
“Sure. Beach friends.”
“Did he start dating anyone else?”
“Not that I know of. He might have. But he wasn’t a playboy or anything. Or if he was, he didn’t seem like one. He was laid-back about everything. He loved nature. He loved the beach and the waterways. He was a bird watcher. He always complained about the building boom in downtown Sarasota. Hated all the new buildings. And that new monstrosity right there on the corner of John Ringling Causeway and the Trail. The Westin. God, he hated that.”
“And yet he was into real estate.”
“See?” Tessa waved, flicking her fingers out, pointing at me in agreement. “That’s what I’m talking about. He contradicted himself all the time. He was a developer who hated development.”
“But he wasn’t developing anything—not yet.”
“I know. That’s because his father was footing the bill. He had all the money he needed. And yet he lived like a bum. His house was always a mess. He never locked the door. He went around in ripped shorts and flip-flops. But then he’d be at a fund-raiser at the Ritz-Carlton or Michael’s on East rubbing elbows with Sarasota’s wealthy.”
“Meanwhile, you had to work eighty hours a week,” I said.
She frowned. “I didn’t resent him. But I lost my job. And the newspaper world is dead. I mean, everything I had been working for all my life imploded: four years of college, two internships, a year at a small paper in Colorado, then the Sarasota Herald. You can’t get a job at a newspaper anymore. And if you do, you can be damn sure you’re not going to last.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, sister.”
“Well,” she said and leaned back in her chair. “That pissed me off more than anything. When I was with Liam, I was reinventing myself, I guess. If I resented anything about him, it was how he didn’t have to try. But what was worse is that with all he had, he chose to live like a college kid, you know?”