by D P Lyle
“I want to show you something that might help,” Morgan said. He pointed toward his computer. Clark and Munson moved behind him so they could see the screen. “You’re not the only one that does research.” He worked the mouse until he found what he was looking for in his browser history. The homepage for Regency Global Productions appeared. Banners down the left side showed graphics for some of RGP’s major productions.
“This is Nicole Jamison’s uncle’s company. Charles Balfour.”
Munson leaned toward the screen. “Wow. He’s done all those movies? I’ve seen most of them.”
“So has everyone else. Charles Balfour is a heavy weight out there in LA. Won a bunch of Oscars and Emmys.”
“Impressive.”
“But that’s not what I wanted to show you,” Morgan said.
Morgan clicked a badge titled “Future Productions.” The page listed thirty or more projects. Divided into groups: Post-Production, In Production, and Development Stage. Morgan pointed to the final list.
“These are the things they’re exploring.” There were thirteen items listed. “Check out number eleven.”
“Aftermath,” Clark said. “That’s the project they’re working on here.”
“It is.” Morgan leaned back in his chair. “Looks legit to me. Does that waylay any of your anxieties?”
“Some,” Clark said. He hooked a thumb in his belt. “Maybe this’ll be good for the town. Maybe we can finally put the Billy Wayne Baker chapter behind us.”
“Once and for all,” Munson added. “We are way overdue for burying the past.”
“Those’re my thoughts, too,” Morgan said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
NICOLE AND I left Swift’s Bakery and headed up The Boardwalk toward Woody’s where we planned to meet Ray and Pancake. Nicole hooked her arm in mine, my other hand occupied with a white bag of bear claws for Pancake. I knew better than to return empty-handed. Never hear the end of it. Peter wouldn’t let me pay for them, even when I insisted. He’d have none of it. So I shoved a ten in the tip jar.
“What do you think?” Nicole asked.
“About Peter and Charlaine? I think they like each other.”
“Maybe more than like.”
That had been my impression and I told Nicole that.
“Makes sense though,” she said. “She and her sister are so much alike—at least it seems that way—so I’d think the attraction would be natural.”
“They do act like a married couple.”
“Actually, I’m surprised they aren’t. I mean, they have a long history together, both lost Loretta, Charlaine her spouse a few years ago, work together every day.”
“Maybe neither is ready,” I said. “Or maybe this community would find that odd.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think so, though,” I said. Not a question.
“Not really. They’re obviously a big part of the community.”
“Not to mention turning out all those wonderful goodies.”
“I bet half the population drops in there at least once a day.”
“My point exactly,” I said.
“Which means the town would probably celebrate with them if they ever do.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“Why would you ever doubt that? Of course I am.”
“Even the blind dog finds the bone every now and then.”
She unhooked her arm and elbowed my ribs.
“What was that for?” I rubbed the side of my chest.
“Just making a comment. With an exclamation point.”
“Message received.”
“But, was it understood?” She laughed.
I started to say something stupendously clever, maybe stupidly clever, but, to use another cliché, probably better to let sleeping dogs lie.
We found Ray and Pancake at a deck table beneath an umbrella. Ray had a Dew, Pancake motoring through a plate of fried calamari. I tossed the bag to Pancake.
“Compliments of Peter Swift.”
“He’s a good man.” Pancake tugged out one of the bear claws. He took a bite and followed it with a forked mass of squid tentacles. Not exactly a combination I’d choose, but Pancake treated food like a war zone. Scorched earth.
“Mighty fine,” he said.
Pancake’s face looked a lot better. Even compared to this morning. He had always healed quickly. Even when we were kids. I think it was from the dirt he rubbed on every bump and scrape. Really. It works.
We sat. “How’d the morning go?” Ray asked.
“Good,” I said.
“Tell me about it.”
I went through our conversation with Clark in “the box.” The details of the night Sara Clark had been murdered. Clark finding his wife.
“That jibes with what Munson said,” Pancake said.
Ray nodded. “What was your take on Clark? Was he telling the truth? Was he really torn up about his wife’s death?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’m not exactly a psychologist.”
“But you know people,” Ray said. “You own a bar. You deal with people every day. People of all types. I’d say that qualifies you to judge people. That’s why I wanted you to take the first run at him.”
Did Ray say that? Was he actually seeking my opinion? Was he mellowing? That didn’t seem possible. Maybe I misunderstood him. I glanced at Nicole. She gave me a half smile. She’d heard it, too. I felt like the world had reversed its spin.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Either he’s really damaged from his wife’s death, or he’s an excellent actor.”
“How so?” Ray asked.
“He seemed very matter of fact. Almost as if he was reporting something that happened to someone else. Like a cop would. And maybe that’s it. He was in cop mode with us. But, I will say that he did, at times, look like he was in pain. And had been for a while.”
Ray looked at Nicole. “That your take?”
“It is. I think his anguish was real.” She looked at me. “It seemed to me that he really misses her.” She shrugged. “But, like Jake, I’m no psychologist either.”
“But you know acting. Was he?”
“Maybe. Hard to tell. Sometimes he seemed distant, almost like he was reading a script. But at other times he appeared sad.”
Ray nodded. “That meshes with my impression of him. Seemed very matter of fact. Seemed to accept Pancake and I as consultants and not investigators.”
“It did seem to me that he and his wife had a good marriage,” Nicole said. “At least, he seems to miss her.”
“But does he miss her because Billy Wayne killed her, or because he did something stupid and only later did the finality of it hit him?” Ray said. “He wouldn’t be the first killer to later regret his actions. All the negative shit builds up, you think you have a solution you can live with, then afterwards realize it was all a big mistake. That the negatives weren’t all that negative. That the positives were much more important. But, by then, it’s too late. What was done can’t be rewound.” He shrugged. “Happens all the time.”
“I suppose,” I said.
“Sound like neither of you could get a good read with him,” Pancake said. He tugged a second bear claw from the bag and took a bite. “Means he’s either a good cop, or a good killer.”
That was the question. Did Frank Clark kill his wife, or was he just another of Billy Wayne Baker’s collateral victims?
“What about you guys?” Nicole asked. “Anything new?”
“It was interesting,” Ray said.
“In what way?” I asked.
“How you guys doing today?”
I looked up to see owner Betty Lou Thompson standing there.
“I see you had a chat with Peter Swift.” She nodded toward the bear claw Pancake held. “Just what a growing boy needs.” She laughed.
“That’s me,” Pancake said.
“Did the names I gave you help?”
“Sure did,” I said.
“We talked with everyone except Tommy Lee Kovac. I called but got his voice mail.”
Betty Lou looked out toward the Gulf. “He had a charter this morning.” She glanced at her watch. “Should be back before long.” She looked at us. “What can I get you for lunch?”
We ordered. Three of us had fish tacos. Pancake went for pork. A rack of baby backs and a side of fries.
“Have that up in ten,” she said and walked away.
“Interesting in what way?” I asked Ray, returning to our conversation.
“Chief Morgan’s a good man. Probably a good cop. Clark and Munson seem like a tight pair. My impression is they run a pretty good shop.”
There was more, I was sure.
Ray continued. “Except they aren’t too keen on security.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Pancake said.
“Their evidence lockup is little more than a school locker.”
“And it ain’t locked,” Pancake added.
“Really?” I asked. “That means that someone besides Frank Clark could have gotten to the evidence?”
“Sure does.”
“Even that dude,” Pancake said. “What was his name?”
“Angus Whitehead,” Ray said. He looked at me. “The town drunk, it seems.”
“Yeah. We met him briefly. Seemed harmless.”
“Probably is. From what we saw, he spends many a night there. In an open cell so he can leave whenever he sobers up.”
“And it’s right near the closet where the evidence locker is,” Pancake said.
“So, Angus could be the killer?” Nicole asked.
Ray smiled. “He didn’t seem the type. Or capable, I imagine.”
Nicole smiled. “Didn’t seem like a killer to me either.”
Ray took a sip of Dew. “The point is that he could get in the evidence locker completely unnoticed. Means a bunch of other folks could, too.”
I sighed. “That doesn’t make this any easier.”
“My money’s still on Clark,” Ray added. “He would be the one that knew how to plant the evidence. Then would be in a position to find it as he worked the scene.”
“And the one that most likely had a motive to kill his wife,” I said.
“Where would that leave us with Noleen Kovac?” Nicole asked.
Ray gave a shrug. “That’s the tough one. I still don’t see a connection between her and Clark. Either Frank or Sara.”
“Maybe Billy Wayne’s lying about two not being his,” Nicole said. “Maybe it’s only one.”
Ray shook his head. “I don’t see that. It’s a package deal. Either he’s lying about both or he’s telling the truth. It doesn’t make sense otherwise.”
“Probably so,” Nicole said.
Ray looked at Nicole and me. “How’d your visit with Peter go?”
“We had a good talk with both Peter and Charlaine,” Nicole said. “Really nice pair.”
I started the say something about the conversation Nicole and I had had on our walk over, but what was there to say? We didn’t really know them. Didn’t know squat about their relationship. Besides, our speculations weren’t relevant. Instead, I said, “They are both still dealing with Loretta’s death.”
“Losing a wife, or a sister, is a real kick in the head,” Pancake added.
By the time we finished lunch and the table was cleared, and Pancake was halfway through a large slice of peach pie and massive scoop of vanilla ice cream, Betty Lou reappeared.
“Looks like Tommy Lee’s back,” she said.
She pointed toward the marina. I followed her finger. I saw a lanky man shaking hands with a couple of guys, who then grabbed the handles of an orange and white cooler and carried it up the dock. The man, who I took to be Tommy Lee, jumped into his boat and began sorting through gear.
“Maybe we’ll stroll down there and have a chat,” Pancake said.
She nodded. “Be careful with him. Boy’s got a temper on him.” She gave a quick nod and walked away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
PANCAKE AND I walked to the end of the dock where Tommy Lee’s white fishing rig was moored, its two blue plastic bumpers tapping against the wood, which creaked and popped beneath Pancake’s feet. Weather-worn, the dock could use some refurbishment, at least a few coats of marine sealer. Something else the town likely didn’t have the budget for. Blue script on the boat’s side read: FISHY BUSINESS.
Ray had earlier decided that Pancake and I should handle this chat. Me to ask the question; Pancake to keep Tommy Lee’s temper in check. In case it went that way. He felt that if we all went, Tommy Lee might feel ganged up on. Might get his hackles up from the get-go. And if he did go ballistic, he didn’t want Nicole there. She countered that she was acing her Krav Maga classes and could take care of herself. Ray laughed, saying he had no doubt, but he didn’t relent.
The rods had been cleaned and stored in a rack along one side, and three shiny reels sat on the rear transom. Tommy Lee was wiping down the rear seats as we walked up.
“Tommy Lee?” I asked.
He straightened, turned toward us. “Who wants to know?”
He was lean, hard, a guy who worked for a living. His deeply tanned muscular arms hung from a sweat-stained gray tee shirt. A rose tattoo on one forearm.
“I’m Jake. This is Pancake.”
Tommy Lee cocked his head to one side as he examined Pancake. “What kind of name if that?”
“Mine,” Pancake said.
“Looks like you scraped you face there,” Tommy Lee said.
“Bicycle, asphalt.”
Tommy Lee nodded and smiled. “You the ones doing that film thing I heard about?”
“We are.”
“I figured you’d get around to coming by sooner or later.”
“We’d like to talk to you about your sister.”
He looked at me, hesitated, and then said, “I guess that’d be all right.” He tossed the rag he’d been using into a bucket of dingy water. “Get you guys a beer?”
“That’d be good,” Pancake said.
“Come on board.”
He disappeared below deck and returned with three long-necked PBRs. We cracked them open and sat on the rear bench seat, Tommy Lee hiking a hip up on the gunwale.
“Nice boat,” I said. It was. Shiny, clean, new. Looked to be fully tricked out for fishing.
“Thanks.” He waved his bottle. “I like it.”
“Looks new.”
“I’ve had it a couple of years. But I keep it in good order. My charters want everything up to snuff.”
“How long you been in the business?” Pancake asked.
“Six, seven years. I worked for a guy for a couple of years then got my own boat” He looked toward the bow. “It wasn’t as big or as functional as this one. Traded it in for this one.” He took a slug of beer. “Let me up my charter fees quite a bit.”
“Business good?” I asked.
“Sure is. Fishing is popular around here.” He smiled. “Always has been.”
I nodded.
“So, you want to talk about my sister?”
“We do,” I said. “Tell us about her.”
“What’s to tell? Other than she got killed by that Baker guy.”
“Her and several others,” I said.
“I don’t rightly give a rat shit about the others. But my sister was something else again.”
“I take it you two were close?” I asked.
He took a long slug of beer. “Sure were. She was two years older. Taught me a lot growing up. Even helped me with school.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t the best student. She was. Straight A’s. Really good with numbers, which is why she worked over at the bank.”
“What happened that day? From your perspective.”
He looked out toward the water. “The day before, I’d dropped by the bank to make a deposit. I didn’t have no morning charter the next day so we arranged to meet for breakfast. We didn’t do that often enough. With work and all.” His
gaze fell. “But she didn’t show.” He shook his head. “And that ain’t like her. Her word you could take as solid.” Another slug of beer. “I called. No answer either at home or on her cell.”
“That unusual?” I asked.
“Sure was. I knew, right then and there, that something was out of sorts. ’Course I never expected what I found when I went over there.” He looked back toward the water, his gaze unfocused.
“Which was?”
“She was in her room. All stretched out. Roped up. Dead.”
“Any signs of a struggle? Or of a break-in, stuff like that?”
He shook his head. “Nope. The door was unlocked. The back one. I went through the front—with my key—so I didn’t know that until I looked around.” He picked something from one leg of his jeans and tossed it in the water. “But there weren’t no busted windows or jimmied doors or anything like that. Fact is, except for her, everything looked normal.”
“Was she good about locking up?” Pancake asked.
“Yeah. Not always. But definitely after Loretta Swift got herself killed.”
“You called the cops then?”
“Sure did. For what that’s worth.”
“Want to explain?” I asked.
“Look, I ain’t got no beef with them. Not really. I mean, I’ve rubbed up against them from time to time.” He gave a half smile. “Not without reason. But you’d think they’d have done more. I mean, we’d had one murder here. A couple of months earlier. And in pretty short order, we knew it was Billy Wayne Baker. I’d think they’d have been on some kind of alert. More patrols. Whatever.”
“Maybe they simply didn’t have the manpower,” I said. “From what I’ve seen, it’s a small department.”
“True that. But, we don’t have killings around here neither. Seems they shoulda done more.”
“You know Billy Wayne only had one victim in each of the other towns?” I said.
“And we had three. Lucky us.”
“What I’m saying is that they probably figured Billy Wayne had done his deed and moved on. Like the earlier ones.”