A Mighty Fortress (27 page)

He thought about it. “Why not?”

I went ahead and squirted a few drops of honey in each cup from a crusty honey bear bottle. Stirring the honey into the tea, I noticed the time on the microwave—nearly six o’clock. I’d slept the afternoon away. Then I delivered my guest’s cup to him and took my own mug and a seat across from him.

“Do you recognize me?” he asked.

It was only then that I got a close look at him. He was clearly the same guy I’d seen scoping out the funeral, but I was surprised by the details of his appearance from this short distance. His hair was whiter than gray; it almost looked bleached, like a skater punk’s hair. He wore thick Buddy Holly glasses, and his skin was smooth and unblemished. He had the face of a twenty-year old on the body of a seventy-year old, with lean, strong arms. He had a strong jaw, too, the kind that could withstand all you could give it, with a nice dimple on the chin that would make Kurt Douglas envious. I couldn’t see the color in his eyes, due in part to the hipster glasses that covered them, but the white surrounding his pupils somehow seemed both alive and translucent. Everything about the guy radiated health, and I wondered if he drank carrot juice by the gallon.
 

He had style, too. Especially impressive was his ivory guayabera, which looked fresh off the rack from a clothing store in Ybor. To top it all off, he somehow looked familiar and foreign to me at the same time, so much that I wondered if the drugs they’d given me at the hospital were still having their way with me.

“Sure,” I said. “We saw each other at the funeral yesterday.”

“That’s it?”

I nodded. “Unless we knew each other in a past life.”
 

“So you know who I am, then?” he said.

It felt like a trick question. “I assume you’re not local. So I would guess you work for the family.”

He nodded and shrugged, indifferently.
 

“So, Mr…?” I wasn’t sure what to call him.

“You can call me Gus.”

“Maybe I’ll just call you Giuseppe. They told me all about you.”

“Why not Gus? It’s easier to say, no?”

“Gus was my old man’s name.”

“Oh yes, the firefighter who lost his life on 9/11.”

I nodded.

“The catalyst for you to drop out of law school and join the Army.”

“I see you’ve done your homework. But you missed one detail. It was the Navy.”

“My apologies.”

“No offense taken, Giuseppe.” I let him take a sip of his tea. Then I continued. “So, assuming you’re telling the truth and you’re not here to kill me, what can I do for you?”

He set the chrome-plated revolver in front of him at an odd distance: well within his reach, but close enough to me to test whether I wanted to make a run for it. “It should come as no surprise that my boss is very interested in dealing with the murder of Chad Scalzo.”

“Dealing with? You make it sound like a transaction.”

“Sure, you could say that’s my line of business. Regardless, we’d like to know what you have learned, and offer you some friendly advice and what hopefully will be helpful information.”

“All I know is that the police are close to making an arrest.”

He scoffed at that. “How long have you lived in Tampa, Mr. Porter?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? You did your research.”

“And obviously not long enough to know that you can’t trust the police. You of all people should know that if you want a job done right, you have to do it yourself.”

Of course I knew that, and better than he realized, which was why Mattie had hired me to do this job in the first place—and why I had lingering suspicions about C-Rod and his investigation. But there was no need to mention all that right now; I was more interested in seeing what he had to offer. “So, you said you had some advice for me?”

His eyes grew dark and slim. “The girl, Mr. Porter. Where is the girl?”

“That’s a good question. It seems no one has seen her since Sunday night.”

“The same night of the murder?”

“Sorry, I’ve met the girl. I can tell you there’s no way in hell she could pull this off. Plus, in case you didn’t hear, the killer popped up last night and nearly killed a paralegal, and missed sending me to the grave by about half an inch. No way that was her. It was clearly a dude.”

“I didn’t necessarily suggest she’s the killer. Let’s just say we’d like to see her brought home.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Giuseppe, but I’m sitting here right now asking myself why I’d even continue with this investigation.”

“Oh, you have plenty of reasons, Mr. Porter.”

I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, and I didn’t like what he’d just said. “Name one.”

“How about justice?”

I waited for the punch line. I realized I was laughing.

“Don’t scoff at me,” he said.

“I’m not. It’s just… to hear you talk about justice. Well…”

“Well what?”

I shook my head. “Oh, nothing.”

“Good, then. Are we clear?” he asked.

“Sure, I think we’re clear. So you want this girl?”

“For a few reasons, but as far as you’re concerned, we think she has information that would help in your investigation.”

“Do you suspect her of having something to do with his death?” I asked.

He shrugged. “That’s for you to find out, isn’t it?”

He’d given me a lot to think about. “So this girl—if I were to find her, would any harm come to her?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Porter, I can’t read the future.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Just what I said.” He picked up the gun and admired its sheen. Then he aimed his fiery eyes at me. “One other thing. With all the violence erupting around here, it would be tragic if something were to happen to that girl who stopped by here a while ago to check on you. She was banging on the front door while you were sound asleep. What a pity if the door were opened, and she entered and found someone like me here wielding a gun. There are a lot of people out there wielding guns, aren’t there?”
 

He gripped the gun now, his index finger extended parallel to the barrel. He could pull the trigger with a quick slip of the finger. I said nothing.

“Are we on the same page?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said, my voice dead and dry.

“Any questions, then?”
 

I shook my head. “No questions. But I do have one comment.”

His brow arched. “Do tell.”

“I don’t like threats, Gus or Giuseppe or whatever the hell your name is.”

I kept my eye on his gun as he stood. “You clearly don’t understand, then, Mr. Porter. I’m just sharing facts with you. Whatever you choose to do with those facts is your call.”

As if on cue, my doorbell sang its sad, pitiful tune.
 

“You really should get that fixed,” he said, and with that he slipped on his gloves and slid out the sliding glass door. The blinds clattered in his wake, and the doorbell chirped again.

I made my way to the front door and opened it.

Hector stood on the front step. He’d turned like he was about to give up and walk away. Still in work gear, he held a large pizza box.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said with a cautious grin as he turned back.
 

“You thought well, my friend.” I welcomed the pizza. I could also use his help with a few things.
 

I stood aside and let him into the foyer. He squinted, noticed my new appearance. “What happened to your face?”

I was tired of hearing that already. “Can’t a guy shave?”

He shook his head like he was trying to ward off some grave injustice. “No, Milo. You can’t. For those of us who are not allowed to grow facial hair, whether by decree of employer or genetics, you are not allowed to shave your beard. Besides, I thought you told yourself after you left the service that you’d never shave?”

“Yep, and I didn’t. Someone else shaved it for me.”

He was still holding the pizza box, studying my face. “I don’t know what to say.”

“How about you love me anyway?” I was about to close the door when I noticed a taxi slowing in front of my house. It passed my mailbox. Then it stopped, reversed, and pulled into my driveway. The driver turned to the backseat.

I wondered if Rico or Val were about to hop out and give me the third degree. I made a note to call them right away, but I forgot about that when I saw who was walking up my driveway. “What brings you out tonight, Judge?” I called.

Pinkerton looked like he’d just woken up from his own afternoon nap. “You do, you sorry-ass tart. I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

Damn, I needed to check my phone. Pinkerton tiptoed into my foyer. He was still wearing half the suit he’d worn in court that morning. He’d lost the tie and the top button. He took in the scenery, namely Hector opening the pizza box on the stovetop.
 

“You got paper plates?” Hector asked.

“Above the stove.”

Hector found the plates and pulled a slice from the box.

I’d almost forgotten the introductions. “Hector Garcia, meet the honorable Frank Pinkerton.”

Hector had his head in the fridge now, inspecting my beer collection. “Good to meet you, Judge. Can I get you a beer?”

“Something cold,” the judge answered as he took a seat at the kitchen table.

I told Hector if he didn’t find what he was looking for, to check in the garage fridge. He liked that idea and disappeared.

The judge moaned and rubbed his eyes. “So, that your boyfriend?” Then he looked at me with fresh eyes.

“My neighbor.”
 

“Well, really I don’t care one way or the other. I just want to know what I’m dealing with here.” He looked at me anew, as if the air in front of him had just cleared. “I meant to ask you today why you got rid of the beard.”

“Doctor’s orders.” I pointed to the bandage on my jaw, the bandage that needed changing.

Hector returned with three bottles of my home brew, the pale ale.
 

“Would you like some pizza?” I asked Pinkerton.

“What’s on it?”
 

“Pepperoni and mushroom,” Hector said.
 

Pinkerton shook his head. “I’m allergic to mushrooms.”

“No shit?” Hector’s voice echoed with disappointment.
 

“Give me a break. So I can’t eat fungus.” Pinkerton rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Besides, I had a steak at Scores.”

That grabbed Hector’s attention, too. “The place on Dale Mabry? They serve steaks?”

Pinkerton nodded. “Not a bad one either.”

Hector looked grossed out. “I couldn’t eat in a place like that.”

Pinkerton raised his bony index finger. “That’s because you couldn’t gain admittance to a place like that.”

I stood over Pinkerton. “There there now, Judge. I know it’s past your bedtime, but let’s not insult my guests. Can I get you some chips, a different beer, or something?”

Pinkerton studied a bottle of the pale ale Hector brought in from the fridge. “How about a porter, Porter?” His throat couldn’t tolerate the deep guffaw that followed, and his voice whimpered with a rasp. “I’ve been wanting to say that.”

I knew Hector didn’t like dark beers, and I knew just where to find what would make Pinkerton happy. I pulled a bottle from the inside fridge, set it down in front of Pinkerton. He read it aloud: “Smuttynose. Robust Porter.”

“The best, in my opinion,” I said. “And quite appropriate for you, Smutty.”

“That’s a Yankee beer,” Hector added.
 

“It’ll do just fine.” Pinkerton popped the top off and drank it right from the bottle.
 

“So tell me, Judge. What really brings you here?” I said.

He glanced across the table at Hector, as if he was uncomfortable talking around him.

“Don’t worry, Hector’s in on this too.” I looked at Hector, who looked confused by what I’d just said. “That reminds me, Hector. I need to ask you a favor. A big favor.”

Chewing away, he shrugged.

Pinkerton reclined in his chair and hit the bottle hard. “Something about today just didn’t sit right with me.”

“You mean the shooting, and Wilcox disappearing the night before trial?”

He nodded. “But more than that. Did you see the way that McSwain fella acted when the trial was continued?”

“Yeah, I saw that,” I said. “So what? Of course they were happy.”

Pinkerton frowned. “There’s no decency among us.”

“Well, the cops think they have their guy, but I’m not so sure. So I’m going to talk to him tonight.”

“Who?” Pinkerton asked. “The suspect?”

I nodded.

“Then I’m coming with you,” he said.

I shook my head. “No offense, but why are you even here, Judge?”
 

Hector looked up from his pizza and nodded as if to say
good question
.

Pinkerton wrenched his hands together. “I told you, I miss being in the game. I need some action.”

I studied him for a moment, as he nodded, as if to show his sincerity. “So what’d Sanders have to say today?” I asked.

“Don’t even get me started on that pompous prick. He wanted to know what I was doing there. Then he essentially insulted me for moonlighting as a trial consultant, especially for the likes of you ass-hats.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I nearly told him to suck it. The nerve of him. I taught him everything he knows about being a judge. Made sure he replaced me when I retired. And he’s going to ridicule me like that? I’ll show that fancy fuck not to mess with Francis Lloyd Pinkerton.”

“Francis?” Hector asked.

“That’s right, and don’t forget it.” Pinkerton raised a mean fist. “I told him I don’t like retirement. I got emotional, opened up to what I thought was an old friend. You know what he did? He laughed. Said I must owe Jenny too much money.”

“Jenny?” Hector was still asking the questions.

“My last ex-wife. I don’t owe her a dime, and he should know that. I’m content to spend the rest of my days just as I am. In places like Scores, staring at the women.”

Initially, imagining Pinkerton doing that turned my stomach, but then I realized that a man of his proclivities might just have been of assistance to my investigation. “I need you to keep doing that,” I said. “I need you to help me find a girl.”