by Danny Lopez
I followed. The place was nice: small waiting room with an Eames-style faux-leather couch and a small reception desk. The walls had large architectural renderings of what I assumed were future projects—including the ugly modern nine-story tower that was replacing the small 1920 bungalow in my neighborhood downtown.
Other than that, the place was empty. No receptionist or secretary. I picked up a Sarasota City Magazine from a side table. It was four months old. The men had gone into a different office. I peeked inside. It was empty. No furniture, no papers, nothing on the walls.
“Any of you guys know Dieter and Waxler?” I asked.
They ignored me, but the man with the keys shook his head. “Not in this building.”
“How long has Trainor been here?” I said.
“Who’s Trainor?”
“The guy that rented this office. You just told me he canceled his lease.”
The man with the keys glanced at one of his friends and they both shrugged. “Didn’t know the guy’s name,” he said and nodded at his friend. “What was it, like ten months?”
“Something like that.”
“You know where they’re moving?” I asked.
“Beats the hell out of me. We just clear the space for the next tenant.”
I gave the place another look-over, but there was nothing in the office or in the reception that gave me any ideas or leads. The reception looked legit. Like the kind of place people came to be treated well while they were being sold a million-dollar condo.
I left the office and walked a couple of blocks to Main Street and went up to Mr. Pearlman’s office in the Orange Blossom building.
“Dexter!” Vivian seemed genuinely surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?”
“I need your help.”
“You mean Mr. Pearlman’s?”
“No,” I said. “I need to get in touch with the man who sold Liam the property on Beach Road.”
“I don’t have his contact information.”
“You can get his name from the County Appraisers website. Look up the property address. There’s a record for previous owners. I need you to find his phone number.”
“But I have work and—”
“Take twenty minutes off your busy schedule and do this for me,” I said and wrote my number down on a Post-It on her desk. “I need to know who was doing the bidding for the other side.”
“Does this have to do with Liam’s death?”
“I’m not one hundred percent,” I said quickly. “I have a feeling it was Dieter & Waxler. And I think they might be in cahoots with one of our county commissioners.”
CHAPTER 33
I HEADED BACK to Siesta Key. Bob Fleming hadn’t hired me to spy on Brandy Fleming. And whatever was going on between her and Keith Peterson was really none of my business. It was the pills. True, I didn’t like Brandy Fleming. She seemed like a real opportunist. And she was aggressive enough that she was probably pulling Keith’s strings. She certainly wielded her power around like the world owed her a favor. I could see her manipulating Keith into killing Liam. But why?
The pills. Opioids were highly addictive. And addicts would do anything for a fix—even kill.
The guard at the gate of the Sanderling let me through without calling it in. Maybe my name was on a list. Maybe he was busy watching TV. I passed a nanny pushing a stroller and an elderly couple walking together in matching exercise suits and neon-colored tennis shoes. I made the curve. From here I could see the ocean in its infinite blue. The people of Sanderling had what the county was trying to take away from the rest of us: a nice stretch of beach and an unobstructed view of the ocean. They would never have to deal with condos or county commissioners stealing their slice of paradise.
I pulled up beside the white Maserati. The car was sparkling clean. As I walked past, I touched the rear of the car. It had just been waxed.
I rang the doorbell. Mrs. Fleming answered immediately—opened the door a quarter of the way and stepped out, pushing me back with her perfectly manicured hand and shutting the door behind her.
“Now you listen to me,” she said quickly, her voice low, the tone just this side of aggressive, “my husband is not well. I don’t want you riling him up in any way. You understand me?”
I stared at her dark almond eyes. Somewhere in there lurked a deadly poison. It angered me. “Don’t sweat it, lady. I’m here to talk about Liam, which is what he hired me to do.”
She grabbed my arm, her artificial fingernails digging into my skin. “I’m warning you. One word about me and Keith and you’re gone.”
I smiled, teeth clenched. I imagined her conversation with Keith. I could see them sitting in the cockpit of the Maserati in the pouring rain, barking at each other like a pair of desperate teenagers caught in the act. Keith freaking out about me knowing what was going on between them. Brandy Fleming ordering him to be cool, act it out. Only she didn’t know Keith came clean about the pills. He’d said she said they were for a friend—the oldest lie in the book.
Mrs. Fleming held my stare for a moment. Then she released my arm, turned on her heels, and opened the door.
She walked ahead of me into the living room. She sauntered around a chair, glared at me as she opened one of the French doors that led to the covered patio. “Darling,” she sang out in a friendly Donna Reed tone, “your detective’s here.”
Bob Fleming was sitting in a teak Adirondack chair facing the pool and the Gulf of Mexico.
Mrs. Fleming didn’t wait for me. She shifted her weight to one leg for just a second, like a model striking a pose, then walked away, disappearing somewhere in the house.
I stepped out and closed the door behind me to keep the AC from escaping out of the house—force of habit.
Fleming leaned his head back a little to face me, but his eyes seemed far away. “Vega,” he mumbled, “come in. Tom Pearlman called last night … said that … said you stopped by his place.”
I came around, offered him my hand. He didn’t take it. He just gave a tired nod to the matching Adirondack chair to his left. “Sit down.”
I pulled the chair and turned it at an angle so we could see each other.
Bob Fleming looked at me and raised his glass. “Like a drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He turned and faced the Gulf again, pointed at it with his glass. “Is a nice view, isn’t it?” He slurred. I figured the man had probably been drinking all morning.
“Indeed. A real money view.”
He chuckled. “Whattaya mean by that?”
“A view of the ocean doesn’t come cheap.”
He laughed and it turned into a cough. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded. “That’s the truth alright.”
“I wanted to tell you about Liam,” I said.
“I was hoping for that. Tom said you were full of questions.”
“Well, your suspicions were correct.”
He didn’t flinch or change expression. He just stared out at the ocean as if all was fine with the world. Then he raised his glass and twirled it over the armrest and set it back down without taking a drink. His eyes narrowed to a squint. “What happened?”
“He was drowned. Someone also drowned his partner, Terrence Oliver.”
“Terr … Oliver … I saw that in the news. That was his partner?”
“Yes. The two of them owned Beach City Holdings.”
“You have any idea who … did it?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “But there is something I think you need to know.”
His head bobbed and he turned, his squinty eyes trying to focus on me. He seemed wasted. Like he was there but not there.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“Tell me about Liam.”
“I think I better tell you about Keith.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s one of Liam’s beach friends. And … he seems to be involved with your wife …”
“Tom told me las
t night,” he said and stared out at the Gulf. I figured that’s why he was so drunk.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry. But it appears Keith is also supplying pills to your wife.”
“What does it have to do with Liam?” he said half mumbling but in a loud voice, his face turning crimson.
“I’m sorry.”
Fleming drew in a long, deep breath. “Why?”
“Why what?” I said.
“Why did he kill Liam?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t know that he did. I just think there’s more going on between Keith and your wife than you think.”
“I don’t think so,” he barked, then he huffed and took a long sip of his drink. He set the glass back down on the armrest and opened his mouth to say something when the doorbell rang.
He turned slightly as if to look behind him, but he couldn’t turn all the way. I did the same. Across the living room in the foyer, Brandy Fleming stood with the door slightly ajar.
“Who’s it?” Fleming slurred.
My phone vibrated with a text. I pulled it out and glanced at it. It was from Vivian: Guy’s name is George Finney, followed by the number.
The front door opened wider. Brandy Fleming turned and stormed across the living room. “Bob!” she yelled, her arms swinging. “Bob, call Pearlman this instant!”
Detective Fenton Kendel and two Sheriff’s deputies walked slowly into the house looking around like they were admiring the decorations.
Kendel’s eyes followed Brandy Fleming to the patio. Then his eyes fell on me. He pushed the front of his pork pie hat up on his brow and frowned.
I smiled.
He made a quick gesture with his right hand to the two deputies and the three of them followed Brandy Fleming to the patio where she was holding a portable telephone receiver out to Bob Fleming.
“It’s the police,” she snarled in that nasty tone of hers. “Do something, Bob. For God’s sake!”
Bob Fleming pushed himself up off the chair with difficulty. He shifted as if he might fall, then regained his balance just as Detective Kendel joined us on the patio. The two deputies stayed behind him like a couple of well-trained dogs, hands resting on their belts.
“What’s this,” Bob Fleming barked with surprising authority. His face was crimson, his jowls shaking as he jerked his head at Kendel. “What’s the meaning of this … this …?”
Kendel ran his hand over his handlebar mustache and offered a folded paper to Mr. Fleming. “We have a warrant for the arrest of Brandy Fleming.”
For a moment, Fleming seemed suspended in air, frozen like he hadn’t understood Kendel’s words. Then he blinked. The red color drained from his face. He shook his head and his hands trembled. I thought he was going to fall back, but instead he stepped forward and ripped the paper away from Kendel’s hand.
Brandy Fleming took cover behind her husband, perched her hands on his shoulders, looked over him as he unfolded the paper and read the warrant.
“I don’t understand,” he muttered and grabbed the phone from his wife. “What’s the charge here?”
It was as if he’d said it without expecting an answer. He was already dialing the phone when Kendel said, “Trafficking in illegal drugs.”
“You’re crazy!” Brandy screamed at Kendel. “I don’t do drugs.”
“Keith Peterson says otherwise,” Kendel said. “We also have a search warrant and—”
“You go to hell!” Brandy spat.
Fleming didn’t look up. I couldn’t tell if he’d even heard what Kendel had said. He finished dialing and placed the phone to the side of his face. “Tom. I have the police here with a warrant for Brandy’s arrest.”
Kendel looked past the Flemings and locked eyes with me. “What the hell are you doing here, Vega?”
That’s when it hit me about Bob Fleming and that mighty powerful vodka he offered me the other day. That’s why he was so out of his head. Maybe even why he drank.
“Check the Grey Goose,” I said.
“What goose?” Kendel said.
“The vodka,” I said and pointed at Bob Fleming’s drink. “She’s putting it in his vodka.”
For an instant, all we could hear were the waves lapping in the ocean. A seagull. All eyes focused on the drink sitting on the armrest of the Adirondack chair. Then Brandy swung her arm and flicked the glass off the chair. It sailed between Fleming and Kendel and crashed into pieces against the pool deck.
Fleming lowered the phone from his ear and turned to his wife. “Brandy …”
“What?” Brandy Fleming screamed and waved a finger violently at Fleming, at Kendel. “I had nothing to do with it. It was Keith. I never—I never.”
“Mr. Peterson says different,” Kendel said.
Brandy Fleming grabbed her husband’s arm with both hands and spoke over his shoulder. “It’s a lie, Bob. I swear, it’s a lie. I didn’t do anything. Please make them go away.”
Bob Fleming’s whole face seemed to sag. Color came back to his flesh. But he looked different, older. “Tom said you better go with them.”
“What the fuck?” she cried, the Jerry Springer coming out of her like spit. “This is bullshit, Bob. I didn’t do anything.”
“Tom’s on his way downtown,” Fleming said, his tone steady. “We’ll sort it out there.”
“No!” Brandy Fleming yelled and stepped back but still held on to her husband’s arm like a lifeline. “Don’t let them do this, Bob. Help me. Stop them!”
Fleming stepped to the side. One of the deputies moved past Kendel and Fleming and grabbed Brandy by the arm.
She flailed and slapped at him, her manicured nails scratching. “Get the fuck away from me, you creep. I’ll fucking sue your ass. Get off me!”
But the officer managed her like a pro, twisted her arm so she was forced to turn her back to him, held both her wrists, staying in control as he gave her the Miranda rights.
Bob Fleming hung his head and watched his wife lose whatever little dignity she had left.
“No!” She shoved shoulders, tried kicking the officer. “No, no. Bob, do something, you impotent fool. Stop them!”
I tapped Kendel’s arm. “You got anything on Terrence Oliver’s murder?”
Kendel pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Why should I tell you?”
“Hey,” I said. “I told you about the laced vodka.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Come on, Kendel.”
He didn’t answer but motioned for the other detective to move back into the living room.
The deputy that had cuffed Brandy turned her around. She spat at his face. He held her with one hand while he wiped the side of his face on his shoulder. Bob Fleming watched the whole thing without expression—just blank like when he was looking out at the Gulf—stoned on fentanyl or oxycodone.
The officer led Brandy Fleming past us, through the door, where he joined the other deputy in the living room.
Kendel nodded at me and Mr. Fleming. “Let’s take a look at that vodka.”
The two deputies made their way across the living room and out of the house with Brandy Fleming in handcuffs. Kendel and I went to the bar in the small section between the living room and the dining room. I pointed to the big bottle of Grey Goose.
Kendel opened the bottle and sniffed it. “How’d you know about the vodka?”
“He gave me a drink the other day,” I said. “I took two sips and it knocked the hell out of me.”
“Really?”
“I just now figured it out.” I looked back at the patio. Bob Fleming was back in his chair, his head resting on his hand. Alone.
“You got any idea why she was doping the old guy?” Kendel asked.
“No idea,” I said, but I did have a suspicion that what Brandy Fleming was after was control. Keeping Bob Fleming addicted and under the influence would give her the run of the house—and the finances. But that was me. And I had no proof of any of it. And it wasn’t my job. I was fishing for a dif
ferent criminal.
I said, “You gonna give me something on Terrence Oliver or what?”
Kendel took a deep breath. “We ain’t got much. But I did reopen Liam Fleming’s case. Both men owned a company that invested in real estate. They lived in the same house. Both were drowned less than a couple miles from each other.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
He grinned. “Oliver had a serious contusion on the side of the head. Obviously knocked out, then drowned. I’ve got the medical examiner goin’ over Liam’s case again, see if there was anything we missed.”
“Any chance Mrs. Fleming and Keith Peterson were involved?”
Kendel shrugged. “We’ll find out soon enough.” Then he waved to a group of deputies who’d come in with a couple Pelican cases full of gear. Kendel offered the bottle of Grey Goose to the crime scene investigators. “Bag this one and any others like it. And check the inside of that little sports car out front.”
CHAPTER 34
KENDEL MADE IT obvious he wanted me out of the way. And I was of no use to him or anyone there. The way I saw it, the question was whether Brandy Fleming was drugging her husband before or after Liam’s death. If it was before, I figured Liam could’ve found out and threatened her with going to the cops. If it was after, all I could imagine was that she was trying to take over.
I knew I was grabbing for straws. Brandy could’ve been jealous of Liam, or maybe she was so greedy she didn’t want Bob Fleming bankrolling his kid’s business. I just hoped Kendel would figure it out. I was hired by Fleming to find out if his son’s death was an accident or a murder. Nowhere in our conversation did we agree that I was to find the murderer. He wanted closure. He was going to get it now. My job there was done.
I got in Tessa’s Fiat. But before leaving the Sanderling for the Village, I had one final errand. I dialed the number for George Finney in Massachusetts. But before the call went through, I had another call coming in. It was a Sarasota number. Joaquin del Pino.
“Whatta you got?” I said. I knew lawyers. They hated wasting time unless they were getting paid.
“The properties are going into a trust,” he said quickly. “With one exception.”