The Elf cancelled the school board hearing and prated about the County Attorney’s Office as if his strategy to purge Miles Peterson from the school system had been a great success, unaware that the attorney/parent of one of the students he’d served with a subpoena was in the process of filing a scathing complaint against him with the State Bar Ethics Commission.
Debra Vance was removed from her assignment at Kensington High and returned to patrol. On the first day of March, using some of her vacation days, she boarded a flight to West Palm Beach, Florida.
#
The State’s Attorney for the 19th Judicial Circuit of Florida, who two years ago won election in no small part by making Miles Peterson’s case a campaign issue, was Kellen Granger. A 45-year-old father of three, Granger was once described in a local newspaper as a man of hospitable demeanor with a pit-bull switch. A gun-rights advocate, Granger had signs posted on every door to his house as a warning to potential burglars: body-silhouette gun targets with the circa Dirty Harry dare, Do you feel lucky?
Perpetually tan from weekends spent deep-sea fishing, Granger kept his graying hair short, favored black suits, white shirts, red ties, and plain black-frame eyeglasses.
On an afternoon in early March, Granger received Debra Vance in his office at the time they’d pre-arranged by phone two weeks earlier.
“Thanks for seeing me,” Vance appreciated, shaking the fit-looking man’s hand.
“Any time.” Granger had a strong voice it was easy to imagine filling the largest of courtrooms.
The fourth floor window view from Granger’s office provided the same glimmering vista of the St. Lucie River as the marina, less than three miles away, where Miles Peterson killed a man. The head prosecutor’s government-issue desk was stacked with “felony thick” case files, establishing he hadn’t forgotten where the courthouse was; he still tried cases and didn’t just administer a legion of assistants.
“Miles Peterson…” Granger began, his tone non-committal, not giving any indication of concern whether he’d made the right decision in that very high-profile matter, even if it might be about to boomerang and bite him on the ass.
All Vance had said in setting up this meeting was that Miles was involved in an investigation in Maryland.
“There was a witness down here,” she began, “who testified before the grand jury in Peterson’s murder case, then disappeared.”
Granger’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Vance continued: “I realize that happened before you were elected. But do you know if your predecessor looked for her?”
After a moment, Granger, so far still in a friendly way, asked: “Are you well versed on the transient nature of many Florida residents?”
Vance said, “I have an aunt in Vero Beach and she really likes it.”
“Good. I hope she votes.” Granger’s palm lightly tapped his desk. “What’s Peterson done you’re looking into?”
“It’s actually not that as much as, how do you know when you make a judgment call—when evidence could be viewed one way or the other—how do you know what to do? Is that something that comes with experience?”
“You’ve come a long way to ask such a theoretical question. One that doesn’t seem to have anything to do with Miles Peterson. How about just telling me what you want.”
Cautious of Granger’s renowned pit-bull switch, Vance proceeded: “A school board attorney in Maryland got a copy of the police file on Miles’ case down here—looking for something he could use to keep him out of the public school system.”
“Why did he want to do that?”
“Because he’s an ass. A short, stupid, power-hungry—”
“Got it,” Granger interrupted, as if familiar with the type.
“He had me review that file because I was supposed to be helping him.”
“But instead,” Granger guessed, “you felt sorry for Peterson. You saw him as a victim. Only now he’s done something in Maryland. And you’re beginning to wonder if maybe he’s not such a victim after all. That you got it wrong.”
“Well…like you, I took Miles’ side—”
Granger interrupted again, correcting: “I wasn’t on Miles' side. I made a decision that benefitted him. But as far as that goes, if new evidence comes up that makes me think I was wrong, I'll recharge him. Jeopardy never attached and there's no statute of limitations. So, I—or whoever gets this office after me—have the rest of Miles' life to re-file those murder charges. But as it stands, the guy who sat in this chair before me withheld information from Peterson’s attorney—which was that the person Peterson killed, Jimmy Garatollo, on the night Peterson killed him, had a roll of duct tape in the trunk of his car, plus rope, a fully-charged cattle prod, and two hoods—the sort of thing kidnappers put over the head of people they abduct. Now maybe Jimmy had a busy night ahead of him after whatever he wanted with Peterson. Or maybe those were the everyday tools of his trade. But it looked to me like the intent wasn’t to rob Peterson, but grab him, take him somewhere. Maybe torture him. Maybe kill him. Maybe who knows. But nothing good.”
None of this information had been in any police files or newspaper accounts Vance had read. “Why would he want to do that to Miles?”
“Good question. I asked Peterson about it.”
“And?”
“He said he had no idea.”
“You think he was lying?”
Granger didn’t respond.
“Because if Miles had known the man was looking to harm him…” Vance considered. “…and Miles killed him… Wouldn’t that support an argument it wasn’t self-defense? That Miles had reason to want the man dead?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” Granger supposed. “The other is that Jimmy Garatollo met a fitting end. Which is the sort of thing juries down here tend to reward, not punish. There is also the possibility—let's call it the very likely possibility given Jimmy Garatollo's criminal history—that he went after Peterson because he'd been paid to do it. If so, keeping that information out of the case protected whoever hired Jimmy to do whatever he was supposed to have done. Maybe collect money, although Peterson didn't seem like the borrowing or gambling type. So maybe to threaten him—send some kind of message. And maybe that message wasn't just for Peterson. There were two hoods in the trunk of Garatollo's car. Maybe one was a spare. Or maybe Peterson was stop number one on a two-stop night and stop two had nothing to do with him. Or maybe it did. And maybe Peterson knew that, too. And maybe instead of being the messenger, Jimmy Garatollo became the message—sent by Miles Peterson back to whoever he'd pissed off." Said the prosecutor with signs on his home asking potential intruders if they felt lucky.
#
The marina where Miles used to work had only recently reopened, having undergone a major renovation to the ship’s store and restaurant.
Shortly after leaving Kellen Granger’s office, Debra Vance arrived at the small complex, which no longer looked as it had in crime scene photographs. Now much larger, the former wood-framed structures had been rebuilt with concrete block, a pebbled stucco finish, and hurricane-resistant windows.
Inside the restaurant, no one was stationed at the hostess’ kiosk, so Vance took a seat at the end of the bar.
The only other patrons were a foursome of men older than her father. Just finished 18 at The Champions Club, the group drank beer, watched much better golfers on TV, and caused Vance a moment of discomfort as they looked her over. Unimpressed by the conservative “court clothes” she’d worn to meet Kellen Granger, the men’s collective gaze rather quickly returned to the TV.
Vance waited for the bartender to finish prepping slices of lime, hoping to find someone who’d known Miles when he killed Jimmy Garatollo—maybe had even been here the night it happened. But the bartender told her all the current employees were new. The older workers had moved onto other jobs when the place closed for renovations.
Vance tried the piers, where a boatman remembered Miles: “Yeah, that kid kicked the shit o
ut of that guy tried to rob him a few years back. Whatever happened to him?”
Vance said that’s what she was trying to find out.
“You know who you should ask,” the man suggested. “Mary Anna. Used to tend bar here. Now she’s some place out on the highway.” By highway he meant U.S. 1, a main road that pretty much ran the entire east coast of Florida. “Biker joint, I think,” he added, which narrowed the list of possibilities, but U.S. 1 still covered a lot of miles.
It took Vance two days and lots of phone calls, but she located Mary Anna.
#
“Not that scam,” Mary Anna smirked. “That line’s as old down here as, Your check’s in the mail, and that other one about your mouth. You know the one I mean?”
Vance did not know—and did not ask. She’d told Mary Anna she worked for an heirs location service and was trying to find Miles Peterson, implying he stood to inherit money.
By way of further schooling, Mary Anna added: “Anyone down here’s got a relative who might leave them money is going to be where the rest of the family last sent a birthday card. The ones need finding are bail skippers, dads owing child support, and other deadbeats with bills they can’t pay.”
“Okay,” Vance conceded, “you got me.”
“And the only one of those categories I see Miles possibly being in is jumping bail, but that would still be unlike him. Cause if history shows anything, that boy stands and fights.”
Mary Anna’s current place of employment was a biker bar, but not the sort of hard-edged dive Vance had been sent into as a police cadet to see if she could get served underage. Arlene’s was where couples in weekend leather could lean their Harleys out front, sit under a thatched roof, and get a decent hamburger—even a veggie burger—with their beer. There were palm trees and cocktails served in hula girl glasses.
Not that Mary Anna didn’t look like she could hold her own in a rougher place. Somewhere in the back end of her 40’s, her long hair was dyed inky-black, her skin sun-leathered, her shoulders broad, her hips wide, and belly mushrooming out between a tight t-shirt and tighter jeans.
“Miles was in Maryland for a while,” Vance told Mary Anna. “And left before something happened he doesn’t know about.”
“You’re pregnant.”
“No.”
Mary Anna set a coaster in front of Vance, perhaps as encouragement to order something. On a cloudy weekday afternoon, the bar wasn’t busy. “What makes you think Miles came back this way?” She seemed intrigued by the possibility.
Vance showed Mary Anna the text message Miles sent in the middle of the night before he left: Going back to FLA. Thanks for everything. Au Revoir.
“That last part—that’s French, right? Means goodbye.”
“Yes.”
“You French?”
“No.” Vance returned her phone to her handbag. “I went to the marina up in Stuart where Miles used to work. You worked there with him, right?”
“Miles won’t go back there.”
“Because of what happened?”
Mary Anna smiled the way people do before revealing something they enjoy telling. “You mean him killing Jimmy G…?” She shook her head. “No, darlin’, not because of that. He won’t go back because of Amanda.”
#
“You could see it every time Miles looked at her,” Mary Anna told Vance, pouring her a beer. “He was in love. And Amanda was in love right back at him. Those first months Miles was in jail…?” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Lord—Amanda looked like she did nothing but cry.”
“Who’s Amanda?” Vance asked.
“The wife of the man who used to own the marina.”
“The wife?”
Mary Anna nodded, grinning.
“And she and Miles…?” Vance left the question unfinished.
“Oh yeah,” Mary Anna confirmed rather happily.
“When he was sixteen…?”
Another pleased nod from Mary Anna.
“Really?”
“Mm-hmm. Then again, that boy coulda been mistaken for twenty—easy. The way he had about him.”
“And Amanda was…?”
“Early thirties,” Mary Anna answered.
Debra Vance wasn’t really surprised—the way she hadn’t been surprised when she saw Miles and Cara Blakely together. “Where’s Amanda now?” she asked.
“Dead,” Mary Anna answered. “Chuckie, too. That was her husband. That’s why the marina closed and has new owners.”
“What happened to them?”
“Car crash last year—Alligator Alley on their way to Naples. Ran head-on into a tractor trailer. Chuckie crossed the center line. And big old Cadillac or not, semi wins that contest every time.”
Vance digested this along with what she’d learned from Kellen Granger, then asked: “When it was going on—Miles and Amanda—do you think Amanda’s husband knew about them?”
“Well…put it this way: Chuckie was never gonna be accused of being all that bright. I mean, he inherited the marina from his father. But he wasn’t that stupid either.”
“He knew then, you’re saying?” Vance wanted to clarify.
“For sure…?” Mary Anna shrugged. “But if I had to bet…? Yeah, Chuckie figured it out.”
“And was Chuckie—?”
“Not the kind to put up with that?” Mary Anna guessed without needing to hear Vance’s entire question. “And the kind to call an old friend from his Dade County days?”
“You mean Jimmy G?”
Mary Anna smiled. “Let me call my husband. See if he’s heard anything about Miles. Duke’s a charter captain—most lovable unreliable drunk you’ll ever know until you come across the next one. Miles’s doing any boat work local, Duke’ll be able to find out. That saying about loose lips sinking ships may have started with the navy, but didn’t stick with fishermen. Those boys gossip worse than soap opera hens. I’ll ask around some myself,” Mary Anna added. “I always liked Miles. Leave me your number, I’ll call you.”
Three days later, as Debra Vance was beginning to catch on to her aunt’s occasionally impatient bridge lessons—and was undecided about whether to extend her trip or go home—Mary Anna called. “Found your boy,” the biker bartender reported.
#
Sunset at the Sailfish Marina on Singer Island, the sky was rich with colors of orange and red behind purple clouds.
Forty minutes south of the marina where Miles killed Jimmy G, he stood shirtless on the gunwale of a 40-foot Hatteras sport fishing boat, hosing off saltwater accumulated from a full-day charter.
The vessel was considered a “boat” according to a captain Debra Vance talked to outside the marina office, because it worked for a living. Unlike the larger multi-million-dollar craft used primarily for the pleasure of their owners, which were “yachts.”
Vance walked down the pier in shorts, t-shirt, and sandals—having finally abandoned her northern clothes. Three slips from where Miles worked with his back to her, she paused. Maybe it was enough to see he’d made it to Florida.
But before she could decide whether to continue or turn back—before she could bring herself to take her eyes off him—Miles saw her.
He smiled, not with joy or glee, but like someone hurting who was glad to see a friend. “This isn’t Paris,” he called to her. Putting on his shirt, he ambled barefooted off the boat—his movements effortless as always—and offered Vance his hand with an apologetic gesture, as if he would have hugged her if his shirt wasn’t stuck wet to his skin.
“You look good,” she said, peering up at him against the sunset. “I mean, like you belong.”
“I missed it.” He was as suntanned as if he’d never been away. “Is this a business trip?” he asked.
Vance didn’t know what Miles meant at first, then realized how this must look to him: her traveling almost 1,000 miles to find him likely gave the appearance of police work, regardless of her attire. She pushed back a length of hair the breeze blew across her face. “I
’m spending time with my aunt, who happens to live near Stuart. And somehow…one thing led to another.” She left her explanation at that and Miles didn’t cross-examine her. She omitted how she missed having him call her Mademoiselle Vance. And missed seeing him. “I was worried when you cut off your phone.”
“It got stolen. And I haven’t gotten around to getting another one.”
Vance took a breath of sea air, finding it not exactly sweet, but pleasant. Restful even. “I thought you’d want to know about the medical examiner’s final report on Cara. It was determined to be an accidental death. Not suicide. Because there wasn’t any note.”
Miles squinted slightly, which made his expression briefly take on a harder cast.
“And there’s nothing in the report about the marks around her throat—which makes me wonder if Valentine had some back-channel influence on that. Because you and I know why she took those pills. Either something Valentine did—maybe half-strangled her to death—or something he said. Or both. But there’s no ongoing investigation, so…” Miles looked to understand where she was leading, but she finished her thought anyway. “…unless I turn over the surveillance video that shows Valentine at Cara’s house that night, he’s going to walk. He’s going to keep being the shit that he is.”
Miles shook his head. “Then it would come out what she was doing.” He was referring to Cara being a prostitute. “And I wouldn’t want her son to ever know about that.”
Vance had wondered whether Miles loved Cara. Now, she knew. She had other questions, too. About Amanda. And Amanda’s husband. And the man Miles killed two years ago, Jimmy G. Did he think Amanda’s husband sent Jimmy G to scare him away from his wife? But now, looking at Miles, she let all that go. “I understand.”
The Pretty Woman Who Lived Next Door Page 23