Quarterback Trap (A Carlos McCrary novel Book 3)

by Dallas Gorham

“Then where is she?” Horatio asked.

  I shook my head. “We don’t know, sir. Bob is worried, and he asked me to find her. I spent all day yesterday looking.”

  “Well, you certainly got an early start today.” Horatio Perez glanced at his watch. “Evangelina and I serve breakfast to the homeless at our church every Monday before we go to work. We came home so Evangelina could get her car.”

  “I’ll try her right now.” Evangelina picked up her cellphone and called. She held her husband’s hand as they sat together on the couch.

  Snoop and I waited.

  Evangelina squeezed Horatio’s hand as she listened to the voicemail message. Her eyes glistened. Her hand shook as she set the phone down beside her Cuban coffee. “Straight to voicemail,” she said to Horatio. He put a hand on hers.

  “We’d like to ask you a few questions that might help us find her.”

  Evangelina twisted her hands in the folds of her skirt. “Anything we can do. Anything.”

  “Was Graciela worried about anything when she came to see you?”

  Horatio shook his head. “Same old Graciela. She was excited about Bob playing in the Super Bowl, of course.” He glanced at Evangelina. “We all are. In fact, he got us good tickets—twenty-five-yard line.”

  Evangelina smiled and reached down to pet the dog. “I think Graciela came mainly to play with Gordo.”

  I nodded toward the dog. “That’s Gordo?”

  The woman smiled. “Graciela named him that because he was so fat when he was a puppy. Gordo means—”

  “I’m Mexican-American. I speak Spanish. Fat, I know.”

  Evangelina smiled.

  I continued, “Gordo is Graciela’s dog?”

  Evangelina nodded. “We found him at the rescue shelter for Graciela when she was a girl. She and Gordo were inseparable. She went to modeling school in Miami instead of New York so she wouldn’t be separated from Gordo.” The dog looked at the woman and wagged his tail.

  “When Graciela’s career took off, Evangelina and I told her she had to move to New York City. That’s where she could find the media connections and the rich people—for her career. She took Gordo with her.” He scratched Gordo behind the ears. “But he didn’t do so well in that city atmosphere. After a few weeks, we brought him back to live with us. Gordo’s fifteen years old now.”

  “I see. Did Graciela mention she was in any kind of trouble?”

  Horatio said, “No, no, of course not.”

  “Do you know if Graciela was taking any drugs?”

  Evangelina’s lips pressed into a straight line. Her face froze. “Graciela would never take drugs. Never.” The woman pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and began to twist it in her hands.

  Horatio’s eyes narrowed.

  I turned toward Snoop and raised my chin a fraction.

  Snoop plunked his coffee cup on the saucer with a clatter. “Mr. and Mrs. Perez,” he said, “we all know that’s not true.” He leaned toward the couple. “I know you both love Graciela, but you can’t protect her if you lie to us. She may be in trouble. In fact, she may be in danger. We’re trying to help. Was she taking any drugs?”

  Evangelina buried her face in the handkerchief and sobbed.

  Horatio put an arm around her.

  “I’m sorry to bring up such a subject,” I said, “but we need the truth. What can you tell us about Graciela’s drug habit?”

  Evangelina’s eyes blazed. “It’s Jerry Greenbaum’s fault.”

  I opened my note pad. “Jerry Greenbaum?”

  “That’s her agent,” Horatio said. “He told our baby that heroin would help control her weight.”

  Evangelina began to cry again. “She got addicted. She’s been to rehab twice. Bob even paid for it last summer. That man is a godsend.” She looked at Snoop. “Is she using again?”

  Snoop nodded. “We think so. But we thought it was cocaine.”

  “It could be both. Did she tell you where she planned to go after she left here?” I asked.

  The woman looked into space for a moment. Tears streaked her cheeks. “She said she had a party to go to Saturday night to put in an appearance for the media people who would be there.” She looked at me. “That must be the network party you mentioned. That was the only plan she told me about.”

  “What time did she leave here?”

  “Right after lunch.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “A fawn-colored, knee-length skirt with a taupe linen shell, and matching gold earrings, bracelet, and necklace.” She smiled at the memory. “She was stunning.”

  “What about shoes?”

  “Brown sling pumps with gold straps and four-inch heels. I asked her where she got them.”

  I wrote that in my notebook. “What time did Graciela get to your house?”

  “About five o’clock.”

  Horatio saw the surprise on my face and smiled. “Not five a.m. It was the previous day—five p.m. Friday. She took Evangelina and me to dinner at our favorite restaurant on Calle Ocho. She hadn’t planned to spend the night, but we had an extra bottle of wine at dinner. We insisted she stay over.”

  Gracie’s mother looked at Snoop. “She slept in her old room. Gordo slept on the foot of her bed like he did when Graciela was a little girl.” Her tears flowed again.

  Snoop reached across the coffee table and patted her hand. No more Bad Cop. I didn’t blame him; she was hurting. Horatio looked like he was about to cry too.

  I picked up my cup. “Graciela had an appointment with a lawyer before she visited you. Do you know what that was about?”

  Evangelina wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. “Oh, that was about her prenuptial agreement. She met with her attorney that afternoon and came to see us as soon as she finished. She and Bob are getting married in a few weeks, you know. And they both have successful careers.” She tried to smile.

  “Horatio, doesn’t your daughter have a lawyer in New York City?”

  “Of course, but the wedding will be here in Miami and her New York attorney said she should hire a lawyer familiar with Florida law. Her New York attorney recommended the woman Graciela met with on Friday.”

  “Did Graciela tell you her name?”

  “It was something Latin—I think she’s Cuban like us,” Horatio said. “Graciela gave me her business card so I would know who it was in case she called me. It’s in a drawer in the kitchen.” He left the room.

  Evangelina looked at Snoop. “Would you or Chuck like more coffee while Horatio is up?”

  Snoop glanced at me. I shook my head. “We’re good,” said Snoop.

  In a few minutes, the man returned. He put a business card on the table in front of me. “This is her card. You can take it with you if you want.”

  I glanced at the card and smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Horatio.” I showed the card to Snoop. “Victoria Ramirez is my attorney too.”

  ###

  Vicky Ramirez greeted us in the reception area. “You said it was urgent, so I cleared a slot. You’ve got fifteen minutes. Hello, Snoop. Nice to see you too.”

  “We appreciate you squeezing us in. We’ll be brief.”

  She led us to a nearby conference room “You want coffee?”

  I waved it off. “Thanks, but we can’t stay long. We just came from meeting with Evangelina and Horatio Perez, Graciela’s parents. They told us you’re representing her with her prenuptial agreement.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Chuck, you know I won’t confirm or deny who my clients are, let alone which matters I represent them on.”

  “I know, Vicky,” I said, “but this is different. The reason we can’t stay is that Gracie is missing and every hour is precious. We think she’s in danger. Bob Martinez hired me to find her.” I told her about the breakfast meeting with Bob. “I called Bob on the way over here. Gracie told him you’re her attorney. It’s not a secret. I don’t want to know anything about your negotiations with Bob’s attorney. I only want any information
you may have that could help me find Gracie. Will you at least help me with that?”

  Vicky patted my knee. “Sorry, big guy. I would if I could, but I have no idea where she is.”

  Chapter 11

  I drummed my fingers on the convertible’s steering wheel and stared out over the turquoise water. The white, steel skeletons of the container cranes on Columbus Island rose across the ship channel. Columbus Island had been dredged from Seetiweekifenokee Bay to make the port. Two rusty island freighters were moored across the choppy water. The Monday morning commuters had cleared the Beachline Causeway. Traffic was light.

  “Whaddya think, Chuck?” Snoop asked me.

  I had just parked Gracie’s rental in the terminal parking lot for the Mango Island Ferry. “I’ve driven past this ferry terminal a hundred times. I never knew its street address is 175 Beachline Causeway.”

  “She must’ve gone to see someone on Mango Island.”

  “Well, duh. But who and why?” I zoomed the GPS trip log to maximum. “She parked the car here. She didn’t take it on the ferry.”

  “How can you tell?”

  I pointed at the image of Mango Island on the GPS screen. “If she had started the car to drive off the ferry on the other end, the GPS log would have recorded it. No blue log line on the other side; ergo, she parked here.”

  “She had to have met someone here, someone who lives on Mango Island.”

  “Or she walked onto the ferry and went to the island as a foot passenger.” I opened my door. “Let’s go look for security footage.”

  “I want to be Good Cop this time.”

  “I’ll throw you for it. One, two, three… Paper beats Rock. Sorry, Snoop, you’re Bad Cop again.”

  We walked to the Mediterranean style building at the edge of the parking lot. A brass plaque said Security on one of the doors. I pressed the doorbell and waited. The lock buzzed and we entered.

  A large man in an impeccable turquoise and gold jacket sat at the desk behind three computer monitors. He looked up and smiled, straight white teeth gleaming. “Can I help you, sir?” he said in a Caribbean accent.

  I glanced at the guard’s name tag and handed him a business card. Maybe I ought to add a logo of a knight slaying a dragon. “Alphonse, I’m Carlos McCrary. This is my associate, Raymond Snopolski.” I pulled out Graciela’s picture. “Did this young woman cross to the island as a pedestrian on Saturday after 1:00 p.m.? Maybe your security video could tell us.”

  The guard didn’t look at the picture. “May I see your card, please?” His smile faded a bit.

  “I gave you my card.”

  “I meant your membership card, mon. Mango Island is a private club.”

  “I’m not a member; I’m a private investigator. Did this young woman cross on this ferry on Saturday afternoon?”

  Alphonse stood and gestured toward the door. “Sorry, mon. Mango Island is only for members and guests. We take members’ privacy seriously.” He pronounced privacy in the British fashion. “You and your friend will have to leave.”

  I looked at Snoop and raised my chin.

  Snoop leaned across the desk. “Alphonse, you may be in trouble—legal trouble, if you know what I mean.”

  The guard frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Snoop took Graciela’s picture from me and thrust it at the guard. “I’m sure you recognize this woman.”

  Alphonse did a double take and grabbed the picture. “That’s the cover girl, mon. Graciela. The one they call the Latin Angel. My teenage daughter loves her.”

  “That’s right. She’s so famous she uses one name, like Beyonce or Lady Gaga. She’s missing, Alphonse. And the last place she was seen was in your parking lot Saturday afternoon.” He jabbed a finger at the guard. “She parked that red convertible out there,” he pointed through the window, “right where it’s parked now. Then she disappeared. We don’t know how that car got back to her hotel. So, if you value your members’ privacy,” he pronounced it as Alphonse had, “the last thing you want is the FBI and the Port City Police in here looking for a famous model who’s been kidnapped. They would go over to your private island, guns drawn, and take it apart house by expensive house.”

  “Easy, Snopolski,” I said.

  He sneered at the guard. “I know you don’t want the authorities to run rough-shod over your beautiful island, Alphonse. We only need a little information.”

  Alphonse looked skeptical. “If Graciela was kidnapped, why hasn’t it been on the news, and why aren’t the FBI and the cops here?”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Her fiancé is Bob Martinez.” I waited for Alphonse to recognize the name.

  Alphonse had no reaction.

  “You know…Bob Martinez?” I repeated.

  Alphonse scratched his head. “Am I supposed to know that name too, mon?”

  “Super Bowl quarterback Bob Martinez of the New York Jets?”

  Alphonse smiled. “Quarterback…is that American football? In Jamaica we play cricket, mon.”

  ###

  “There she is, Saturday.” I read the time off the screen and wrote it on my notepad.

  Alphonse had scrolled the security video of the parking lot backwards until we saw Graciela’s rental drive backwards into the frame. “I’ll keep going backwards until we see when she arrived.” He ran the video backwards some more. We saw Graciela get out of her car and walk backwards toward the ferry.

  “There,” said Snoop. He tapped the screen. “She was on the island four hours.”

  “Not quite, mon. It takes thirty minutes each way for the ferry to get there and back.”

  “So she was on the island three hours.” I turned to the guard. “Let’s see the video from the other end. We’ll see who met her on Mango Island.”

  “That video is in the guard house on the island, mon. You have to go over there.”

  ###

  We waited until the last of the cars had driven off the ferry. Our steps rattled on the metal deck as we left the Islandhopper III. We walked beneath the thatched roof of the small terminal waiting area to another Mediterranean building that was the twin of the one on the causeway.

  It was twilight and streetlights had come on in the parking lot. I pressed the doorbell, listened for the buzz, and opened the door. “Did Alphonse call you?” I said to the guard behind the desk.

  “You must be Mr. McCrary,” said the guard, also in a Caribbean accent. “I’m Terrence Button.” We shook hands. “I’ve queued the video when the young lady arrived. Come ’round this side where you can see.”

  The frozen picture came to life. Graciela wobbled across the steel deck in her stilettos and took the same walk under the thatched terminal that Snoop and I had taken a few minutes earlier. She disappeared from view.

  Terrence changed to a different view. Gracie crossed the parking lot to a turquoise golf cart with a white roof. A bald man in a pastel green guayabera shirt and khaki Bermuda shorts stood beside the cart. It was Crooked Nose from the hotel elevator.

  “Freeze that,” I said. “Do you recognize that man, Terrence?”

  Terrence scrutinized the screen. “No, mon. There over six hundred condos and fifty houses on the island. I don’t know them all.” He zoomed the picture, and the man’s neck tattoo sprang into high relief. It was a spider web. Terrence frowned at the picture.

  Snoop started to say something, but I put my hand on his arm. “Could you print us a screen shot, Terrence? Thanks.”

  Graciela sat in the back seat without speaking to Crooked Nose, and the cart moved out of frame.

  “Terrence, do the golf carts have license plates?”

  “Sure. I’ll fast forward to when the cart brings her back. We can maybe find a picture of the number.” He punched his keyboard. The picture skipped ahead three hours. “It should show up any second…there.” The video switched to slow motion.

  This time Graciela sat in the front seat. She smiled and talked to the driver. He wore a Panama hat, a red guayabera, a
nd white shorts. The bald man with the neck tattoo sat in the back seat. “Freeze that,” I said. “Zoom in.” The driver’s face was in shadow. “Too much contrast. Can’t make it out. Move a frame at a time, and let’s see if we get can his face in the sunlight.”

  The cart pulled to a stop and the driver walked around to where Graciela stood. He removed his hat as the two exchanged air kisses. It was Black Tuxedo from the Port City Palace. “There,” I said. “Zoom in and print me a screen shot. Snoop, go bring those screen shots from the printer.”

  The cart wheeled across the parking lot and the license number came into view. The guard zoomed in. “Number 1217.”

  I wrote that down. “Who does it belong to?”

  Terrence swiveled his chair and rolled across the floor to a two-drawer file cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer and flipped through a metal box of cards. “Old school. We use index cards for the golf carts. Here it is.” He pulled a card from the box. His face turned to stone. He shoved the card back in the box. “We don’t have that number on file. Sorry, mon.” He started to close the file drawer.

  I grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the file cabinet. I shoved his chair back toward the desk. Pulling the drawer open, I removed the metal box. I found the index card for 1217 and glanced at it.

  Terrence said, “You never got nothing from me, mon. You understand me? I didn’t tell you nothin’. You don’t want nothin’ to do with him.”

  I stuck the index card in my pocket. “Don’t worry, Terrence. He’ll never learn about it from us.”

  Chapter 12

  I started the convertible and drove sedately from the parking lot.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on?” Snoop asked. “You didn’t say a word on the ferry all the way back from Mango Island.”

  “Didn’t want to be overheard, Snoop. Terrence was scared shitless when he saw that index card with the owner’s name. The walls on that ferry could have ears. Wait until I park somewhere. We gotta think about this.”

  When I’d driven a half-mile from the ferry terminal, I turned the car into a side street on one of the residential islands to park. As the car came to a halt, something tapped against my left heel. I put the gear shift in park and glanced at the floorboards. It was a flip-phone. “This must have slid from under the front seat, Snoop,” I said as I picked it up.