Bitter End (Seychelle Sullivan #3) (3 page)

The detective smiled as he burned rubber on a turn into the residential neighborhood behind the police station. “I didn’t say that, now did I?”

Inside the station, Detective Amoretti left me with an efficient young woman who typed my statement into a computer as fast as I could tell it. After she’d printed it out and I’d signed it, I asked her if I could use her phone to call a friend for a ride back to the boatyard. I didn’t tell her that my friend is also my attorney. She agreed, but insisted on dialing the number herself.

“Hey, Jeannie, it’s me,” I said after the young woman handed me the receiver. “I’m at the Fort Lauderdale police station, and I need a ride.”

I braced myself for the harangue I knew was coming. Since I’d recently had some difficulties with the police, Jeannie insisted that she be present anytime I dealt with them. I’d already violated that rule.

“Seychelle Sullivan, what have you got yourself into this time?” she asked.

I told her about the shooting, and as soon as she heard Nick’s name, she turned very serious and told me not to say one more word. She was on her way.

Amoretti must have been hanging nearby, because as soon as I hung up the phone, he reappeared and took me upstairs to the detectives’ bull pen, a large space broken up by individual desks and office cubicles.

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “You’re taking me to Detective Collazo?”

“Vic? Nah, he works the four to midnight now. You won’t find him in here in the mornings.”

That threw me. I’d never thought about Collazo working a shift or adhering to hours. He was just always there. Much as he and I had banged heads in the past, Collazo was a known quantity. I knew where I stood with the man.

Amoretti led me over to a metal desk occupied by a large dark-haired man wearing a brown suit. As excessively polished, tanned, toothed, and coifed as Amoretti was, this man was the exact opposite. His suit, shirt, and tie looked as though they had been selected randomly, not taking into account color or print. A splotch of something that looked like dried egg was stuck on his paisley tie, and his multiple chins were darkened by a day’s growth of beard. Rose-colored pouches hung beneath his green eyes, and when he stood, smiled, and extended his hand, his belly hung over his belt, straining the buttons on his wrinkled shirt. Due to the nicotine stains on both his teeth and fingers, I kept the handshake brief.

“Detective Clayton Mabry,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Ma’am? Seeing as it was less than a week until my thirtieth birthday, I was sensitive to things like that. It was the first time I remembered anyone calling me “Ma’am”—before that, I’d always been “Miss,” and somehow, hearing it in that good ol’ boy accent made it seem even worse. Hell, thirty wasn’t that old—was it?

Detective Mabry pointed to the chair on the opposite side of his desk and offered me the pink box of Good & Plenty he held in his hand.

“Want some?”

I held out my hand as he shook some candies out of the box, then I completely ignored Jeannie’s advice and began to talk to him. The thing was, you felt sorry for him. The man looked like such a mess, and he sounded like he was an oar short of a pair. I couldn’t imagine him ever solving a case, and I felt like any little bit I could do to help him out would be a kindness. Detective Amoretti slouched into a chair at an adjacent desk, pulled out his cell phone, and began playing with the numbers on the phone’s face.

Mabry interrupted my retelling of the morning events. “When you say Nick Pontus’s name, honey, you flinch. You got history with him?”

I exhaled loudly to buy some time. Maybe he was more perceptive than I thought. I really didn’t want to talk about this. “History. I guess that’s one way to put it.”

He extended the box with raised eyebrows and then poured a few more pink and white candies into my hand.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

I chewed the licorice-flavored candies slowly, trying to think of some way to get out of telling the whole story.

It was impossible. The way his eyes were fastened on my face, he wasn’t going to let me dance around. I swallowed and started. “Back when I was in high school, eleventh grade, Nick dated a friend of mine. My best friend, actually. He was older than her by about five years, which is a lot for kids that age, and even back then he was into flash. It was one of those whirlwind courtships they talk about. I tried to warn her off him, but she found something fascinating about him. Basically, he bought her affections, got her pregnant, then married her. She quit school. I haven’t spoken to either one of them since.”

“That’s it? You didn’t get an invite to the wedding so you dumped your best friend?”

I didn’t want to look away, but his eyes cut into me like serrated jade. “It’s complicated,” I said to the ceiling. “You wouldn’t understand.” I didn’t see how dredging up any of this would help them find Nick’s killer. I crossed my arms over my chest and slumped in my chair.

He slowly shook his head as he wrote something down in his notebook. Then he asked, “You sure the shots came from up on the bridge?”

I bounced my shoulders once. I knew I was acting like a bratty kid, but I couldn’t help it. “Not really. I guess I just assumed that from the way the car peeled out, you know, made a U-tum and burned rubber.”

“Hmm. And you said you couldn’t see the driver at all.”

“I barely saw the roof of the car. What I could see of it was black, though, and shiny—not a convertible. There are low concrete barriers along the sides of the bridge. Come to think of it, I can see over those walls with no problem when I’m driving my Jeep, so I guess it must have been more like a sports car. Something fairly low.”

He wrote at length in his notebook, without looking up at me. I glanced over at Detective Amoretti. He still seemed engrossed in his cell phone.

“Detective Mabry,” I said, “do you think the killers were Russian mafia?”

“Whoa, darlin’.” He shot a quick look at Amoretti. “Don’t know where you got that idea.” He shook his head. “Fact is, most folks are murdered by somebody close—family members, upset lovers, that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got to admit, this one does look like a professional hit.”

“Seychelle, that’s enough,” Jeannie said, sweeping into the room wearing one of her voluminous tropical print muumuus, flip-flops slapping the linoleum as she crossed the room. There were too many desks crammed into that office, and the space between them was scant. At nearly three hundred pounds, Jeannie was a substantial woman, and as she approached the chair where Amoretti slouched, he leaped to his feet and pushed the chair under the desk, clearing the way so she could pass. She produced business cards and handed them to both Mabry and Amoretti. “I’m Jeannie Black, Miss Sullivan’s attorney.”

Detective Rich Amoretti took her card, sucked his teeth, and rolled his eyes. My immediate reaction was pity. Not for Jeannie, mind you, but for Amoretti. As a vice cop, he undoubtedly spent lots of time dealing with hookers and strippers, and considered himself an expert on tough women.

Jeannie went easy on him and just cast him a withering look as she took my forearm. “Come on, Seychelle, we’re leaving.”

Amoretti stepped in front of her, resting his thumbs on the fabric belt that encircled his twenty-nine-inch waist.

“We aren’t finished questioning this witness,” he said, looking up at Jeannie.

Her laugh filled the room. “Honey, oh, yes you are.” She pulled me to my feet and turned back to Amoretti, looking him up and down. “They must have made you a detective because they don’t make patrol uniforms in boys’ sizes.”

For the first time, I saw the grin fade off Amoretti’s face. “Very funny,” he said.

“Detective, have you charged my client with a crime?” Not sure I wanted to hear the answer to that one, I glanced back at Mabry. He had rocked back, balancing his chair on two legs, his fingers laced across his belly and his eyes shining as he watched the exchange between Jeannie and the vice detective.

Amoretti started to speak. “No, but—”

“Then there is no reason for her to stay. I understand she has already voluntarily given and signed a statement downstairs. Good day, gentlemen.”

Detective Mabry pushed back his chair and stood up, nodding and grinning at Jeannie like a schoolboy with a crush. “Been a pleasure doing bidness with you, ladies. Hope to see you again real soon.”

Jeannie pushed me ahead of her and we walked out into the hall, turning toward the elevator. We didn’t say a word until we were in her van and pulling out of the police department parking lot.

“Just take me back to the River Bend Boatyard, okay?
Gorda
’s there, and I’ve got a job to do,” I said.

“I don’t think so.”

I turned to face her, surprised by her hard tone of voice. “Why not? Are the boys home?” Jeannie was the single mom of twin ten-year-old boys.

“No, they’d just left for the bus stop about the time you called. We’ve got to stop off and see a client of mine.”

I slumped in my seat. “Oh, geez.” Jeannie’s clients were usually women divorcing scumbag men, and they needed to vent at length about their soon-to-be-ex’s various affairs. “Jeannie, I’ve got to catch the tide.”

She ignored me. “I handled this client’s divorce about a year and a half ago. Her husband had cheated on her with a woman who worked for him, and he intended to marry the younger woman as soon as possible. He was a very wealthy man, and she was agreeing to take almost no money, on the condition that he have a prenuptial agreement with the new wife protecting his assets for their son.”

I stared out the window, barely listening. I had more to worry about than marriages with ugly endings.

“This morning’s events will bring those documents into effect.”

I had let my mind start wandering, but those last words of hers brought me right back. “Oh my God.” I sat up straight and looked at her. “Jeannie, you’re Molly’s attorney?” I unfastened my seat belt and reached for the door handle. “Oh, no you don’t. I can’t go over there. Stop the van. Let me out right here. Jeannie, I mean it. I’ll walk back to River Bend.”

“Shut up and get your hand off that door handle.” She shifted her bulk sideways so that she could face me as she drove. We were crossing the Seventh Avenue Bridge, and I looked nervously out the windshield. I wished she’d watch the road. Her van had electric windows, and I considered rolling mine down just in case— so I could swim out when the van went into the river.

“Molly Pontus asked me to handle her divorce because she had seen an article about you and me in the paper after you inherited your dad’s business. She told me she figured if you thought I was a good lawyer, then that was recommendation enough for her.”

“Geez, Jeannie, would you watch the road? Okay, already.”

Her words surprised me. I had watched Molly from afar, reading everything about her I could find. It had never occurred to me she might be doing the same with me.

“Molly also told me about this feud between the two of you—that you used to be best friends before both of you’all’s pride got in the way. Seychelle, this gal’s gonna need friends in the next few days. You need to get over it.”

“Ha! Just like that. You think it’s that easy, Jeannie? When two people haven’t talked in over thirteen years? She’s the one who walked away from me.”

“You better
make it
that easy. She had her reasons back then. Besides, all these years, your hand’s been broke? You could’ve picked up the phone and called her, you know.”

“Like hell.”

“You do know she’s got a son.” Jeannie chuckled. “Kid’s name is Zale.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, deliberately not joining in her laughter. “Only Molly would saddle a kid with a name like that.”

Jeannie looked at me again, not just a driver’s glance, but a long stare.

“Would you keep your eyes on the road, dammit?”
 

“For a person with brothers named Pitcairn and Madagascar” she said, “you’ve got lots of nerve talking about weird names.”

“So my parents had a thing about islands. Look, I know what it’s like to go through life with an odd name. Poor kid.” I turned from Jeannie and stared out the window again. “Molly always was the artsy type. Zale,” I said, exhaling so sharply that my breath made a faint fog on the van’s window.

She turned on Davie Boulevard and headed for the bridge.

I thought about that morning, going through the bridge towing Nick’s body on the
Mykonos
, and I remembered the first time I met him. Molly and I had skipped school that day at Stranahan High. She had an old Volkswagen convertible, her first car, and we’d put the top down and headed to A1A to cruise the beach. Nick Pontus had driven his Tropi-Subs & Gyros delivery van to Fort Lauderdale Beach that same afternoon, and we parked next to each other north of Sunrise Boulevard. He looked so mature, so unlike the teenage boys we knew, with his thick, brown, wavy hair, black T-shirt, and sockless canvas shoes, leaning against the side of the van smoking a cigarette, staring at the ocean through squinted eyes. He was so different, so exotic, still with the trace of a Greek accent, though he had come to this country ten years before. We struck up a conversation, and when he spoke my name he put the accent on the first syllable instead of the second, and I thought it sounded sexy and exciting. I felt something stir in me that I’d never felt with the boys at school, but when we said our good-byes that afternoon, it was Molly’s number he asked for.

Jeannie turned left into Shady Banks, my old neighborhood. She said, “Did you know Molly lives in her parents’ old house now? She bought it from them when they divorced not too long after she did.”

“I didn’t know they’d divorced,” I said, looking out the window at the familiar little fifties-era tile-roofed bungalows. Molly’s parents were alcoholics who used to fight in screaming, cursing voices that often drove their daughter to sleep on the floor in my room. But when they were sober, they laughed and joked and seemed to get along just great. In spite of their drinking, it was hard to imagine them getting divorced. It must have happened right around the time my father, Red, died, when my brothers and I sold the house on the cul-de-sac to pay off Red’s medical bills. I’d been too wrapped up in my own pain to notice any changes over at Molly’s house.