I punched up the SunPass toll-road map on my laptop and studied where she’d driven, and in which cars, the previous three months. As I wrote down the trips, I recognized patterns. A dozen Wednesday and Friday trips began at the Marshall Boulevard entrance after 3:00 p.m. If she left her house right after the nanny arrived, she must have spent a couple hours somewhere else before she got on the toll road.
The key question: Where did she go on those days before she got on Crosstown Parkway at Marshall?
She wasn’t going to the Wessington Club; it was the other direction. Besides, she no longer took tennis lessons and didn’t use the club much anymore. I made a note to have Flamer hack her Wessington Club account and check the charges to see when she’d lunched at the club.
When she exited the garage, the back seat of the Mercedes held enough packages to intimidate Santa Claus.
I followed her home.
###
The next day I took up my post near Ramona’s gate at 11:00. The Kia showed right on time, and Ramona’s Mercedes came out right on time. No surprises. That was not good. Now that I knew her routine, I wanted her to do something different, a change of scene.
My wish came true. She bypassed Crosstown Parkway and stayed on JFK Boulevard. Twenty minutes later, she turned down Lexington Avenue and parked her Mercedes at Gino’s Take-out Pizza. She must’ve called her order in, because she came out in four minutes with a pizza box and a sack that could’ve been drinks.
Underway again, I figured she was close to her destination. I saw her use her cellphone for a short call. In the next block, she pulled into a two-lane driveway between the Guiding Light Rescue Mission and the Payday Pawn Shop. I waited for her car to disappear, then turned in after her.
The driveway crossed the rear alley and fed into a parking lot behind some apartments a block off Lexington. I turned into the alley and parked in a loading zone behind the Guiding Light Rescue Mission. No deliveries between 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m. I took the sign at its word and blocked their loading zone with my white minivan.
I watched Ramona’s Mercedes in my mirror. She locked the car and walked over to the apartments.
I grabbed a clipboard and followed at a safe distance, pausing to snap a picture of her car and the apartments.
She climbed the stairs at the left of the courtyard and walked toward the middle of the row of apartments. I stood in the shadows, pulled out my clipboard, and pretended to take notes. She stopped at a door, knocked twice, inserted a key, and entered without waiting. I snapped a telephoto picture of the door. Number 212.
I returned to the mailboxes. Number 212 had a plastic stick-on label reading R. Gomez. Ramona’s maiden name was Gamez. Hmm. Gamez and Gomez. I don’t believe in coincidences. I texted the name and address to Flamer.
I returned to my van and waited two hours. The dashboard clock indicated fifteen minutes had passed. I spent another two hours imagining animal shapes in the clouds as they formed and moved across the midday sky. I glanced at my dashboard clock again. This time twenty minutes had passed. I remembered what Terry looked like naked. Before I knew it, two o’clock came. I couldn’t block the loading zone any longer. I backed my van into a visitor’s spot forty yards from the Mercedes. More waiting. For variety, I remembered what Vicky looked like naked.
###
About 3:30, Ramona’s Mercedes backed out of her parking space. If her pattern held, she’d enter Crosstown Parkway at Marshall Boulevard. She did.
I texted Flamer to check her credit cards for charges at Gino’s Take-out Pizza. I also asked for a report on R. Gomez in apartment 212. Twenty minutes later he emailed me her credit card data, which showed charges on the same days she entered Crosstown Parkway at the Marshall Boulevard entrance. The report on R. Gomez would take a little longer.
Chapter 16
After dinner, Terry and I sat on the back deck, sipping Sangria. Terry pointed at my boat, moored behind my home.
“Chuck, you said you made less money as a PI than you did on the job. But I see your waterfront townhouse and your boat. I’m just a flatfoot, not a fancy detective like you were, but what gives? Are you rich or something?”
“I wish.”
“Then how come you have a place like this and a boat like that on less money than you made as a cop?”
“The townhouse is simple. When I finished college, Port City was in one of its real estate busts. This townhouse was worth half of what it had been a couple of years before.”
“I remember a similar situation in Gainesville when I was at the University of Florida.”
“My landlady had her entire nest egg in this row of townhouses. She couldn’t sell any of them for enough to make a profit. So I offered her a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I signed a five-year lease for the prices in effect four years ago, about half what these go for now.”
She nodded. “What about the snazzy boat?”
“The boat sank in Palm Beach during Hurricane Dominic three years ago. The owner of a boat sunk in navigable water is responsible for clearing the waterway. The insurance company didn’t want to be bothered. They sold it to me for one dollar if I’d remove it from the waterway. I spent every weekend for two years repairing it.”
“You did the work yourself?”
“I’m good with my hands.”
Terry smirked. “That you are.”
“All I had to pay for were parts. I did the labor. Voila! An almost new boat for practically nothing.”
“So you’re not rich?”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“That’s okay. I only want your body anyway.”
Chapter 17
The next morning, I called Ramona’s house on my Carlos Calderone phone. The butler answered. “This is Carlos Calderone, Howley. I want to make sure my christening gift arrived. Is Mrs. Simonetti in?”
“I’ll see if Madam is in. Would you hold, please?”
A few seconds later, Ramona answered in Spanish. “Carlos, how nice of you to call.”
“Good morning, Ramona.” After a few pleasantries I asked, “Did Gloria’s gift arrive?”
“Yes. And I did not expect anything so...” she paused for a moment, “...extravagant.”
“It’s a sincere gift from a friend of Sam’s. I never know what to get a baby. I always figure if it’s for a female, you can’t go wrong with something from Tiffany’s. I ordered it from their website, so I never saw the cup engraved. I want to make sure it looks okay.”
“You can see for yourself, Carlos. Why don’t you join Gloria and me on our morning jog one day soon?”
“I’d love to. How about tomorrow?”
We made the date.
Next, I reviewed the information on R. Gomez that Flamer had lifted from the apartment management company’s computer system. Foolish company. Flamer penetrated their system like a bee taking pollen from a flower.
R. Gomez’s full name was Ramon Gomez. Ramon Gomez and Ramona Gamez. I’d bet a Super Bowl ticket against a sub sandwich they were connected. Ramon had lived there twenty-five months on a month-to-month lease. He paid his rent in cash. Ramona had used her credit card to pay his rental deposit—the card she still had in her supposed maiden name. That linked Ramona to Ramon for at least the last twenty-five months.
I needed DNA from baby Gloria, Ramona, and Ramon Gomez. But how to get it?
I decided to stake out Ramon’s apartment.
###
I parked my invisible minivan at one end of Ramon’s parking lot. Flamer’s data showed that Ramon bought a pickup truck when he rented the apartment. I noted the truck’s description and license and went to reconnoiter. That’s army talk for “look around.” I located an empty space in the parking lot with 212 painted on it. It was now the middle of the afternoon, so Ramon could be at work. Flamer hadn’t yet gotten Ramon’s employment data.
I parked close enough to watch Ramon’s parking spot and waited. It rained again, so people wou
ldn’t hang around to notice me lurking.
Shortly after six p.m., Ramon’s pickup pulled into space 212. He ran through the rain toward his apartment. I waited ten minutes before I started snooping.
I peered in the pickup’s window and got his odometer reading. I noted the inspection sticker and license plate expiration dates. In our state, license plates expire in the owner’s birth month—Ramon’s license plate expired in July. I didn’t have a birth date for him yet, so that could be a clue.
I was alone in the lot, so I stuck a tracking device inside his right rear wheel well. By eight o’clock the rain had stopped. Ramon came out of his apartment, got in his truck, and drove away. With the tracking device, I followed him from a few blocks behind.
He drove to El Rodeo, a cantina in Little Mexico. I gave him two minutes and followed him inside.
The dim room reeked of tobacco smoke. A Port City ordinance forbids smoking in restaurants, but I guess El Rodeo patrons don’t mind, and the cops don’t pay attention. I could hold my breath for a couple of hours. Or not.
Ramon stood at the bar. I waited at the door for my eyes to adjust to the light in the smoky, dim room. An old man in a faded tee-shirt and worn blue jeans brought him a Corona and a menu.
I went to the other end of the bar, ordered a Corona, and watched the futbol game along with half a dozen other customers.
Ramon finished his second beer and ordered a third, along with an order of enchiladas de puerco. Chips and salsa were insufficient to soak up my alcohol intake, so I ordered tacos al carbon and guacamole. Besides, I was hungry. But then, I’m always hungry.
The bartender picked up Ramon’s empty beer bottle and brought him another. He stashed the empty on top of a case of empties to be recycled. When he passed through the kitchen door, I leaned over and wedged a finger into the neck of the bottle, lifted it over the bar, and slipped it into an inside pocket unobserved. Now I had both DNA and fingerprints on Ramon Gomez.
Chapter 18
I locked my Glock in the car at Ramona’s.
Howley opened the door as I climbed the steps. “Good morning, Mr. Calderone. Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Howley, I’d ask you to call me Carlos or Chuck, but I know you won’t. And I would shake your hand, but you’d find that inappropriate, right?”
“Yes, sir, I’m much too proper for such familiarity with Madam’s guests.” He winked. “Won’t you come in? Madam is expecting you.”
Howley showed me to the parlor. The flowers I’d brought on my first visit had wilted a little, yet Ramona hadn’t thrown them out. That was a good sign.
As Ramona walked in, I noticed that she had dressed up for me—another good sign.
“Would it be rude to whistle?”
“Probably, but do it anyway.”
I did, and she responded with a grin. “Carlos, you are such a character.”
“I try my best.”
She held up the Tiffany Baby Bows silver cup I had sent for Gloria. As she kissed me on the cheek, I smelled her perfume. “Here is that lovely cup from Tiffany’s. See how beautiful the engraving is.”
I read GES for Gloria Elena Simonetti. “It’s beautiful. Thanks for showing me.”
“I’ll get Gloria.” She carried the cup from the room and returned pushing Gloria in a jogging stroller. “I brought an extra water bottle for you.”
My heart turned a double flip when I saw Gloria. “She’s gorgeous.” She reminded me of my niece in Texas whom I had not seen since Christmas. I wanted to pick her up, but I didn’t want to push things too fast with Ramona. I squatted by the side of the stroller and rubbed the back of Gloria’s hand with the back of my index finger.
“Thank you. I think so too, but I’m prejudiced.” Ramona pushed the stroller to the front portico.
“I’ll help you.” I grabbed the stroller’s front rail and held it level as we carried it down the steps.
“Thanks, Carlos. Off we go.” Ramona took off at an easy pace to Pennington Park and we looped the track for a half-hour. Then she stopped and extended a water bottle to me. “Water?”
I took it. As I drank, I wiped my sweaty face with the towel I had slung around my neck.
Ramona drank a long pull from her own bottle. “Let’s get you some milk, muñequita.” She pulled a baby bottle from the stroller and picked up Gloria.
“Can I feed her? It’s been months since I’ve seen my niece Rebecca, and I miss her.” That much was true, even if the rest of my time with Ramona was an act. I took Gloria. “Hey, pretty girl, come see Uncle Carlos.” I turned to Ramona. “How old is she? About three months?”
Ramona raised an eyebrow. “For a man, you know babies; she’s three-and-a-half months.” She handed me a burp diaper, followed by Gloria.
“My niece Rebecca was that age last time I saw her.” While I fed Gloria, we talked about the weather, the baby, and the high cost of hiring good domestic help. I put Gloria over my shoulder and pulled my towel so the edge was exposed under Gloria’s burp diaper. I patted her back until she burped. She spit up a little and I wiped her mouth with my towel. I burped her again and handed her back to Ramona. “Thanks. I miss Rebecca. My sister tells me she’s almost walking. Would you like me to take your water bottle?”
“Thanks. The recycle is over there.” She drained the last few ounces.
We jogged back to Ramona’s home with me pushing the stroller. “Ramona, thanks for a lovely morning. And thanks for introducing me to Gloria. She is lovely—like her mother.”
This time Ramona gave me a real kiss on the mouth. “Why don’t you come see me again, perhaps this weekend? We can lunch by the pool on Sunday. One o’clock?”
“It’s a date.”
Ramona squeezed my hand at the door and kissed me again.
My phone whistled as I returned to my car. The text from Uncle Felix announced Results r n. No joy. I called him. “Felix, what’cha got?”
“Nothing, gringo—nada, zilch, bupkis, zero. She’s never been arrested in Mexico City.”
“What about outside the city? Don’t you have a national fingerprint network like our AFIS?”
“Theoretically, but it’s incomplete. Smaller cities don’t have the budget to integrate with the database. Are you sure she’s from Mexico?”
“She tries to disguise her accent, but I can tell you, she’s as Mexican as you are.”
“Well, gringo, we bring additional cities online to the database all the time. I’ll check again next week.”
“Thanks, Felix.”
I returned to the Pennington Park recycle bin. I had twisted Ramona’s bottle into a spiral before I tossed it in. It stood out like a corkscrew among knitting needles. Now I had DNA samples for both mother and daughter.
I drove to the lab and dropped off their samples and the one for Ramon Gomez.
Chapter 19
I knocked on Teresa’s door shortly after noon. “Hey, gorgeous. You look good enough to eat, like a vanilla ice cream cone.”
“You don’t eat ice cream, you lick it.”
“I stand corrected. You look good enough to lick.”
“I’ll hold you to that later.” She put her hand through my arm as we walked to my car.
###
We drove to North Beach—Terry’s favorite. She had no tan lines above her waist and, trained observer that I am, I’d figured she frequented our local topless beach.
Terry piled her blouse and shorts on her sandals on a corner of our blanket. Then dropped her top on the pile of clothes. Oh, my. She stretched her arms overhead and twisted one way and then the other as if stretching before a golf shot. She touched her toes and looked sideways through her sunglasses. “Are you staring at my boobs?”
“I am a trained investigator; it’s my job to notice everything. One never knows where one will find a valuable clue.” I tossed my shirt and shorts onto my own sandals.
“Are my boobs a clue?”
“You bet. I plan to study your boobs thoroughly.”
She looked down and wiggled her shoulders. “See that? They’re too small.”
“Au contraire, ma petite. A wise Frenchman once said ‘more than a mouthful is wasted.’ I’d say yours are the queens of boobs.” I watched with interest as she applied sunscreen.
We spent a pleasant few hours dozing, chatting, and watching sea birds and beach people. When the shadows reached us, Terry put on her top and we climbed the wooden stairs to the Thirsty Marlin, a thatched roof bar/restaurant overlooking the beach.
Terry ordered a margarita; I had iced coffee. When our drinks came, I raised mine in a toast. “To the queens.”
“And the king.” Terry reached under the table to pat my groin.
I put my coffee down and placed both hands on hers. “Terry, are we a couple?”
“A couple of what?”
I groped for the right adjective. “A couple in a relationship. You know, as in Chuck-and-Terry.”
“You mean Terry-and-Chuck.” She grinned.
“Whatever. Are we a couple?”
“Do you want us to be?”
“Yes.”
“What brought that up now?”
“Our love making is terrific, Terry. But, in the long run, I want something more serious and exclusive.”
She pursed her lips in thought. Then she squeezed my hands. “Chuck, do you remember that old Cyndi Lauper song, ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’?”
“One of my favorites.”
“That song could’ve been written about me. I just want to have fun. Let’s compare you and me. You’ve lived on your own since high school, right?”
“My parents offered to send me to college when I graduated.”
She waved me off. “But you didn’t accept their offer. You joined the Army, for God’s sake. You fought bad guys in Iraq and Afghanistan. Then you used your Army benefits to put yourself through college. No money from Mom and Dad.”
Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 7