“Almost true. Mom and Dad covered everything the Army didn’t, so I wouldn’t have any student loans.”
She nodded. “Money isn’t the point; it’s independence. My parents saved for my college from the time I was born. They paid for the whole nine yards. I depended on them the whole time. See the difference?”
“Right.”
“Then you went to Iraq and Afghanistan. The only foreign country I’ve seen is a little piece of Canada when we took a vacation at Niagara Falls.”
“What about the Bahamas?”
“I’ve never been.”
I gestured to her straw beach bag with Nassau Bahamas on it. “That is what we professional sleuths call a clue.”
“Found it at a garage sale.”
“Oops. Anyway, you say you’ve lived a sheltered life?”
“Sort of. You’ve been out of the nest for years. How much did you change in the Army? Were you the same kid that graduated Theodore Roosevelt High School?”
“No, I was different after basic training and even more so after Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“And what about college? Did that change you?”
“I came back from Afghanistan with a pretty grim view of mankind. College reminded me that people can be civilized.”
She put a hand on mine. “Chuck, you saw college through adult eyes instead of schoolboy eyes. You’ve had a decade to live as an adult. I’ve lived independently for a year. You are more...” she searched for the right word “… fully formed than I am.”
“In my expert opinion, you are the most fully-formed woman on the beach.”
She smiled politely. “I appreciate the compliment, but the point is that you know yourself better than I do. I don’t know who I’ll be in two or three years. I’m a work-in-progress. See my point?”
“I see both your points.”
Terry snickered. “Oh, you really are a male, chauvinist pig. I can’t tell if you’re joking or serious.”
“Neither can I.”
She shrugged. “”I’m serious…maybe too serious.”
“Terry, I concede your point; you wouldn’t feel right making a commitment.”
“For now, let’s just see where this goes.” She leaned back and sipped her margarita. Then she winked. “And right now, I hope it goes back to my place.”
“Instead of dinner?”
“We can eat later. And I have something that reminded you of an ice-cream cone you can lick for dessert.”
I held up a hand and waved for our server. “Check please.”
Chapter 20
I called Uncle Felix. “I need another favor.”
“Sure, gringo, whose car you want me to steal?”
“I have more fingerprints for you. At least two sets from a beer bottle. One set is from a waiter. I don’t care about him, but you may have to run him through AFIS to eliminate his prints. The other set is from a man named Ramon Gomez. He’s in his fifties or sixties. He may have been born in July.”
“Any connection between this guy and the lady you asked about last week?”
“Ramon may be her father. I ordered a DNA test. I’ll let you know when I get results. If she doesn’t have a record, maybe he does. Okay if I email them to your personal account again?”
“Sure, gringo. I’ll check them tonight.”
###
I took up my post on Ramona’s street again. If she was seeing Mateo, I really hoped to catch them together. Sam’s death had ended the fidelity clause, but proof that she had a romantic relationship with Mateo could help persuade a jury if the paternity case ever came to trial.
After the nanny arrived, I followed Ramona on another day of lunch at a charity fashion show, shopping at another pricey mall, and visiting the Wessington Club. At 5:50 Ramona arrived back home. I was off duty.
Chapter 21
I love to check the mail. It’s like a treasure hunt when I get a check from a client. Today it paid off. I made a bank deposit with my smartphone app and paid bills online.
Now that I had done the merely urgent stuff, I worked on more important matters. I listed what I knew and what I needed to know.
Then I made a time line.
April two years ago, Ramona’s Social Security number issued in California
June 1 two years ago, Ramona rents a waterfront condo
June 4 two years ago, Ramona pays deposit for Ramon Gomez’s apartment
June ? two years ago, Ramona meets Sam at Wessington Club
October 20 two years ago, Ramona and Sam marry
June 30 last year, Sam goes into hospital.
July, maybe August? last year, Ramona learns she is pregnant?
September 27 last year, Cleveland house fire.
I underlined Cleveland house fire. I stared at it a few minutes, and then continued writing.
November 6, last year, Sam dies
Thanksgiving, last year, Ramona tells Ike and Lorraine she’s pregnant
April 5, this year, Gloria is born
Some facts created more questions. What was Ramona doing in California? When did Ramona join the Wessington Club and who introduced her to Sam? Did they set Sam up? When did Ramona learn she was pregnant? When did she stop seeing Mateo? He claimed it was last year. Perhaps that was because Ramona got pregnant and didn’t need him anymore.
I called Snoop Snopolski. “Hey, Snoop, how about lunch at Florentino’s?”
“Before I check my appointment book, who’s buying?” Snoop never says no to a free meal.
“I’m buying.”
“Then I’m available.”
###
Raymond Snopolski had been a detective on the Port City police for over thirty years. The nickname fit him. He could shoot the eye of a fly at thirty feet, and he could spend two minutes at a crime scene and remember every clue. When Snoop’s partner was killed, Snoop’s wife Janet took it hard. She insisted the job was too dangerous.
Snoop became my partner. Actually, I was his partner. Snoop taught me more about being a detective in the year I spent with him than I’d learned in the police academy or during the years I studied criminology at the University of Florida.
It took her a year, but Janet convinced him to take early retirement. He got a PI’s license more to have something to do than for the money. He did field work for a few lawyers, and I used him for routine surveillance and legwork. If I needed backup, I called Snoop.
I’ve never met a better cop nor a better mentor. I relied on him more than people realized. I was still green, and he was often the brains behind my brawn and balls.
Snoop sauntered into Florentino’s a few minutes after noon. He saw me wave. I shook his hand as he sat.
Snoop held his palm a foot over the table. “I want a draft beer this tall and Boy Wonder will have unsweetened ice tea,” he told the server. His idea of exercise was to lift a beer mug with just one hand.
After the server left, I said, “Snoop, I want to hash this thing over with you. See what I’ve missed.”
“Sure, kid, hit me.”
I pulled out my notes and listed the people who could have been involved in the fire or Ramona’s fake identity or Gloria’s paternity. “The deaths of Ike’s stepmother and his half-sisters were convenient for both Ike and Gloria. What do you think?”
Snoop sipped his beer. “I think Gloria’s a little young to be planning murders. The timing is suspicious. They died pretty soon after Ramona would’ve found out she was pregnant. But Ike says he didn’t know Ramona was pregnant?”
“Yeah, Ramona told him and Lorraine that she was pregnant last Thanksgiving.” I went to the next item on my list. “Ramona first appeared in the United States two months before meeting Sam. Where did she come from, and what was her background?”
“One way to check would be to find which Social Security office issued her card and then go to that town and show her picture around at hotels, bars, and so forth. But it’s been two years, and you got two chances of finding anyone who’d remember
her—slim and none. What else you got?”
“She’s never had a job as far as I can tell. She must’ve been wealthy before she met Sam because she maintained an affluent lifestyle while she chased him. She told Ike and Lorraine that her money was inherited from her father, a wealthy Spanish nobleman. But that’s so much bullshit, because there’s nothing about that on the Internet. So where did her money really come from?”
“Where does she bank? You could trace her deposits. Probably take a court order or a good hacker.”
“Ike’s PA can find out where Ramona banks. The estate sends her a monthly allowance, and they’d know where she deposits the checks. I’ll have Flamer hack her account.” I made another note.
Snoop grunted and took a bite of his Fettuccini Alfredo. “Of course, Ramona might not’ve banked there two years ago.”
I sampled my ravioli. “Yeah, but I gotta start somewhere.”
“If Ramona changed banks, you could check when she opened the account and see if she opened it by a transfer from her old account. Then you could check out her old account.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
He grinned. “That’s why you have me—to teach you stuff. If you made a list of all the mistakes it’s possible to make as a detective, I’ve worked my way two-thirds of the way down the list. But each mistake teaches you something. The more mistakes, the more you learn. Comprende?”
“Ramona was screwing her tennis pro, but he told me she dumped him ten months ago. Why’d she start the affair? And why’d she stop?”
“Simple,” Snoop answered. “She screwed him to get pregnant and stopped when she had a bun in the oven. Was there any other reason to take up with him? Was it just to get pregnant? Or maybe her husband couldn’t hoist the sail, and she screwed the pro for fun—pregnancy an unplanned side effect.”
“It’s a moot point. She did have the affair, and she did get pregnant. Did Ramona know the terms of Sam’s will? If she did, she had a motive to get pregnant.”
Snoop shook his head. “Naah. She didn’t need to know the terms of his will. Anybody knows that a baby will be included in a dead parent’s estate.”
“Yeah, that’s right. In addition to Ramona’s personal thirty million, her baby would inherit over a hundred million dollars and Ramona would be her guardian. And, if something happened to Sam’s daughters, Ramona’s baby would inherit an extra hundred million.”
Snoop nodded. “You gotta check out the half-sisters’ deaths. But, if Ramona had them killed, why didn’t she go after Ike too? Then the baby would inherit the whole estate.”
“Maybe she did go after him and failed. I’ll ask Ike if anything suspicious happened to him around the time Allison and her daughters died.” Another notation.
I glanced at my list of questions. “Ramona visits Ramon Gomez every week and brings take-out pizza. What is her relationship to Ramon? I’ve ordered DNA tests. I’ll have results in a few days.”
Snoop glanced at his notes. “I’ve been tailing Gomez, like you asked. He’s an electrician at the Humbolt Tower they’re building in Humbolt Springs. He spends several nights a week at El Rodeo. It’s his second home. He likes Corona even more than I do. He was back at El Rodeo on Friday, Sunday, and last night. He drinks beer and watches Mexican futbol. Saturday night he took a woman to a country music night club and back to his apartment. I’ll stay on him when he gets off work this afternoon.”
“Don’t bother. I know all I need to know about him until I get the DNA results.”
Chapter 22
Back in my car, I reviewed my list again.
Dennis Howley—I needed to interview him. I called Tom Collins to set it up. I reminded Collins that Howley knew me as Carlos Calderone.
I glanced in my mirror before I backed out. A dark blue Altima with two men in it lurked at the end of the lot. If I hate anything, it’s a car that lurks. As I drove to Jerry’s Gym, the blue Altima stayed a few cars behind me. That could’ve been a coincidence, except the Altima had been following me when I drove from my office to Florentino’s earlier. I pulled into Jerry’s parking lot, and the Altima continued down the street. Dried mud obscured its license plate.
I decided the next time I saw the Altima, I’d turn the tables and follow it.
After my workout, I ran ten miles in the neighborhood surrounding the gym while I watched for the Altima or anything else out of the ordinary. The Altima was a no show. I showered, changed, and practiced at the shooting range. Then I went to visit Dennis Howley.
The Howleys lived in Wekita Springs, a middle-class Port City suburb. If you looked up suburbia in the dictionary, you’d find a picture of Wekita Springs. Neat streets, neat houses, neat gardens.
I parked the Avanti in front of their well-trimmed lawn. Their two-story house was painted pale lavender with darker trim and shutters. Plumbago hedges separated the flower beds from the house. As I climbed the porch steps, the door opened and Dennis extended his hand. “Mr. Calderone, we’ve been expecting you. Please come in.”
“Thank you, Howley. Now that you’re off duty, can you call me Chuck?”
He laughed. “Of course, Chuck. And I’m Dennis. Can I get you something to drink?”
As we entered from the foyer, a slim, middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the living room. “Ah, here’s my wife now.”
Dennis turned to her. “Margaret, I’d like to introduce Carlos Calderone, a friend of Ms. Ramona.” Her smile froze partly-formed, and she stopped dead still, her hand half raised. Dennis quickly added. “He is also a friend of Mr. Sam and Mr. Ike.”
The wife’s smile returned, and she shook my hand. “Welcome, Chuck. Any friend of Mr. Sam’s is a friend of ours. I just poured Dennis a sherry; can I get you something?” She had the same British accent as Howley.
“Thank you, Ms. Howley. Anything non-alcoholic? I’m driving.”
“It’s Maggie for my friends. Coffee okay? How do you take it?”
I told her and she left.
“Dennis, did Tom Collins tell you why I wanted to talk to you?”
“He told me you would visit and said Mr. Ike wanted me to cooperate.” He raised one eyebrow. “You know that I don’t work for Ms. Ramona, right?”
“No, I didn’t know that. And, if I read Maggie’s reaction right, your wife doesn’t think very highly of her, does she?”
“Nor do I.”
“So who do you work for?”
“I worked for Mr. Sam for twelve years, and now I work for Mr. Sam’s estate. My duty is to care for the house—not Ms. Ramona. Ms. Ramona assumes I work for her. Until now, the distinction has been moot. Since I do not work for Ms. Ramona, I’ve no duty of loyalty to her.”
“And that means...?”
His lips lifted at the ends in a faint smile. How very British of him. “Since Mr. Sam’s untimely passing, my duty is now to his estate and to Mr. Ike, as executor. And since Mr. Ike asked me to cooperate with you, I take it your interest in Ms. Ramona is more than social.”
“In fact, Dennis, I have no social interest in Ramona at all.”
“Then, how may I help you?”
“Was Ramona having an affair while Sam was still alive?”
He raised both eyebrows. “I take it from your question that you’re a private detective engaged by Mr. Ike?”
“Technically, detectives are sworn police officers. I’m a licensed private investigator. And because of my ‘duty of loyalty’ as you put it, I can’t tell you any more than that or even confirm who my client is.”
“Hmm. No matter. If I were a betting man, I would bet that your client is, in fact, Mr. Ike, and that he has engaged you to discover the identity of Gloria’s true biological father.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
Howley nodded. “I understand. As to whether Ms. Ramona had an affair, I’ve my suspicions, but I’ve no proof.”
“What suspicions?”
“She took a lot of tennis lessons, and one time she
invited the tennis pro to lunch at the house. Nothing untoward happened in my presence, but I saw a look pass between them. However, I get off around 5:00 or 5:30 each day, so I don’t know what she does at night.”
A few more questions yielded nothing useful. I declined Maggie Howley’s invitation for dinner and left for home.
Chapter 23
The sun had sunk low on the horizon. It flashed in my rearview mirrors as I turned into my driveway. I didn’t see the car behind me.
I glimpsed the Altima out of the corner of my eye as automatic gunfire raked the Avanti. My rear window exploded simultaneously with my front windshield.
I jerked open the door and dove from the moving car. I pulled my Glock as I rolled toward the boxwood hedge between the street and the driveway. The bushes wouldn’t stop a bullet, but they would hide me from view. I got off four rounds as the Altima sped down the street, tires screeching and burning rubber. The waning light made the license plate unreadable, even if the mud had not been caked on.
I heard my Avanti crash behind me as I ran into the street and aimed at the rear of the speeding car. Oncoming traffic and two pedestrians forced me to lower my weapon.
The Avanti had plowed into my garage door and come to a halt against the bent aluminum panels. Somehow, it had missed the concrete block walls.
When I holstered the Glock, my hand felt funny. I looked down to see blood dripping from my skinned palm, knuckles, and elbows. I stared at the shredded, bloody knees of my pants and the torn sleeves of my shirt and jacket. I shook my head, trying to clear my blurry vision.
I’d been shot at in Iraq and Afghanistan years ago. I had body armor and a team of trained Green Berets with me there, and I expected bad guys to shoot at me. Here I’d been caught alone by an enemy I should’ve been expecting but wasn’t. I’d been a split second from dead.
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