Deadly Catch (25 page)

After dinner and drinks at The Green Parrot Saturday evening Kate and I drove back to her house. I’d studied the enhanced photos more that day and had come up with a plan. I still hadn’t replaced the laptop I’d lost in the fire, but Kate said we could use hers.

First, Kate uploaded the photos of Barfield Fisheries I’d taken with my phone to her computer; she’d see what improvements she could make with the Picasa program later when she had time. Next, she downloaded Google Earth to her hard drive, and then I entered the address for the Harper residence. I zoomed in until we had a nice close up showing a matchbox-size Tara and the surrounding property. A narrow dirt road ran through the woods beside the Harpers’ property line. It would make a nice area to park and do some trespass snooping like Tom Mayo had obviously done.

Kate printed out two copies, and then we did the same with the Barfield photos. I was determined to gain access somehow, even if it meant taking to the water like a fish.

“When is Lamar’s day off?” I said as I studied the satellite shot of the Harper place.

“Usually Tuesday or Wednesday. It varies.”

“Can you check the schedule and find out for this week?”

“Sure, but don’t forget that Debra works the night shift at the hospital. If Lamar is still seeing Marilyn Harper he could be going to her place at night, especially now that she’s alone.”

“Good point, and thanks a lot. You just increased my workload.”

Around noon on Sunday I drove to Parkersville. It was time to spend some more plastic. I spent the better part of an hour at Wal-Mart looking at computers and digital cameras, and settled on an HP laptop and a Lumix camera with a twelve-power zoom lens. I’d gotten a good deal on the camper by buying last year’s model still in stock. The leftover cash from the insurance settlement was enough to pay for the laptop and camera.

I pulled out of Wal-Mart and headed for 98. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I noticed a metallic-black Cadillac pull out behind me about a half block back. I was sure I’d seen that car before, or else its clone, a few days ago when I’d met Bo Pickron at Canal Park for our little chat. It had been parked in front of one of the shelters; some ritzy tourists having a picnic or wetting a hook, I’d assumed. There couldn’t be that many Cadillac CTSs in this area. I checked the mirror again.

There were two men sitting in the front, but the sun was glaring off the windshield and I couldn’t make out any features. My gut was speaking to me again, so I hung a right a couple of blocks from the highway. Sure enough, the Caddy followed. I took another right. The car was hanging well back, but it made the turn. I drove downtown, noticed Redmond’s Sporting Goods was open, and made a left and turned into their small parking lot. I got out and headed for the door. Using my peripheral vision I saw that the black Caddy had pulled over and stopped in a parking space about a block and a half back.

Inside Redmond’s, I recognized that the clerk who had tried selling me the snake boots was working behind the counter. “Mr. McClellan, I see you survived your hike into Grand Gator Bay,” he said, smiling as I approached. “What can I do for you today?”

“Just window shopping,” I said, impressed with his recall. I suppose it went with the territory. “Is there a back entrance?”

His eyes widened a bit, but he motioned to a hallway and door at the back of the store with an exit sign above it. “It locks automatically behind you.”

Outside, I cut across an alley and circled back down a side street for a couple of blocks until I was behind the Cadillac. It sat parked a half block ahead. I walked down the sidewalk until I was almost alongside the car. A quick glance told me it was a rental. I rapped my knuckles on the rear fender. Through the tinted glass I saw the guys jerk in surprise. A second later the passenger-side window powered down and a head with thinning, sandy-blond hair stuck out a bit to get a better look at me.

I leaned down a little until I could see them both through the open window. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

Blondie glanced over at the driver, a hefty man with a head full of black hair slicked back like a young Elvis. His body was Older Elvis. Elvis gave a nod to Blondie and opened the driver-side door. Blondie followed suit, unfolding his lanky frame from the car and standing directly in front of me on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, we gotta message for ya,” Elvis said, walking around me until he was beside his buddy.” There was nothing about the voice that remotely hinted of having roots south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Both wore sunglasses and were decked out in casual trousers, bright print Hawaiian-style shirts, and polished leather shoes. Their clothing might’ve passed for touristy wear in Miami Beach, but here in the Panhandle it was almost laughable. The King looked around my age, Blondie a few years younger despite the retreating hairline.

“What’s the message?” I said, eyeballing one, then the other.

Elvis glanced around at the surroundings while the blond beanpole kept his eyes locked on me. The King turned around slowly until a pistol stuffed in the back of his trousers grabbed my attention. “Lay off,” he said, turning back to face me.

“Lay off? Of what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Blondie growled, his voice deeper than his stout cohort’s. I guess it had farther to travel up and out. “We know who sent you.”

“Oh, yeah? And just who would that be?” I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about but decided to play along. I hoped they couldn’t see the nervousness I was doing my damndest to keep at bay. If they’d tailed me to Canal Park and had seen me talking with Bo Pickron, that might be enough to keep them in check, for the moment, anyway. Still, I wished to hell I had my shotgun in hand. I made a mental note to reconsider buying a handgun.

Elvis reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a comb, and ran it through his hair a couple of times, then put it back. My gut tightened, but I tried not to let my eyes show anything. That comb and the one I’d found near my burned trailer were identical twins. “I’m gonna say this one more time,” he said, giving me a stare that even through the shades felt as icy as a cold north wind. “Back off. And tell your boss we’re onto him. Tell him shit sometimes runs uphill.”

And just like that, they climbed back in the fancy wheels and drove away.

Back in St. George I took a chance and called the police department. I recognized Beth’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Is Patrolman Owens on duty today?” I said, trying to disguise my voice.

“Yes, sir, but he’s out right now. I can patch you through if you like.”

I declined Beth’s offer. The last thing I needed was for her or Ben Merritt overhearing J.D. and me talking.

St. George isn’t that big of a place, maybe three miles of highway along the beach from city limit to city limit, but it took damn near an hour of riding around before I spotted J.D.’s blue-and-white a block off the beach on Seventh Street near The Green Parrot. He had pulled over an older-model Toyota and was talking through the window to a young brunette. I slowed down to make sure Ben Merritt wasn’t with him and then pulled to the side of the road behind his cruiser to wait for him to finish the traffic stop.

He looked back at me and held up a finger, either shooting me the bird or signaling he’d be a minute, and continued the conversation with the brunette. Another few seconds passed, then J.D. leaned into the open window, and he and the girl kissed.

I grinned as he approached my truck. “Taking bribes from the public already?”

His face flushed. “No, sir, that was my girlfriend. You didn’t see that, okay?”

“See what?”

He blew out a breath. “Thanks.”

“Your boss man around?”

“No, sir. He comes on at four, then I’m back on at midnight.”

I’d noticed the conspicuous lack of policemen since I’d been in St. George. “Aren’t you guys a little short-handed?”

J.D. glanced toward the highway, looking east to west. “Yes, sir. A couple of men up and quit in the spring. Couldn’t get along with the chief, is what I heard. That’s when I hired on. I heard some talk we’re supposed to be getting somebody else soon, though. The chief likes to run a tight ship, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know the type.”

“The County sends a car over now and then when we need a break,” J.D. said.

I nodded, remembering that I’d seen a green-and-white cruising the streets of St. George on a few occasions.

J.D. looked down, shuffling his feet. “I been keeping my eyes and ears open like you said.”

“And?”

“I heard Chief Merritt on the phone once. I think he was talking to somebody at Barfield’s. I also seen him with Clayton Barfield, Brett’s daddy. They were talking out in the parking lot back of the station, but I couldn’t make out anything they said.”

I nodded. “Good, keep it up, but be careful.” I looked around. “Have you ever heard Chief Merritt talking to anybody from up north, or hear him mention anything about somebody from up there?” What the hell, it was worth a shot.

“Up north? You mean like Yankees?”

“Yeah.”

J.D. mulled it over a minute. “No, sir, not that I can think of, except maybe tourists down here on vacation. Nothing official-like, though.”

I nodded. “Is there anywhere we can go where we won’t be seen? I’ve got something I think you’ll be interested in seeing.”

J.D. thought for a moment. “Yes, sir, my daddy’s place. Him and Mama are on vacation up at Lake Martin. We can park in the garage, and I got a key to the house. You follow me, but keep back a block or so, just in case.”

I followed J.D. for several blocks through an older residential area of St. George about a half-mile inland from the beach. He pulled into a weathered concrete driveway, got out, and swung open the doors of a detached wood-framed garage. I drove in and parked beside his cruiser, then followed him out a side door to the back of the house. He unlocked the door, and we stepped into the kitchen. It was an older home but clean and well-maintained.

“You want a Coke or something?” J.D. said, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle.

“No thanks.” I pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. He sat across from me, and I slid the manila envelope to him. “Take a gander at these.”

J.D. slugged down about a third of his Coke and began looking through the stack of 8×12s. He gave a low whistle. “Where’d you get these?”

“From Tom Mayo’s widow. She said Tom had been conducting his own investigation because Ben Merritt kept interfering when he tried doing his job.”

Another whistle. “The mayor’s wife and Lamar Randall?”

I took the photos back when J.D. finished gawking at them. “So, we have Chief Merritt sitting in Mayor Harper’s car,” I said. “We have Chief Merritt and Brett Barfield together. Lamar and the mayor’s wife. Lamar and Brett. And you saw Merritt and Clayton Barfield talking behind the station.”

J.D. drained the last of his Coke. “Why do you think Coach Mayo would’ve took that picture of the Barfields’ fishing boat?”

I spent the next few minutes filling J.D. in on what I’d found out for sure, my theory about Clayton Barfield using his fleet of boats to smuggle drugs, and how Ben Merritt might be in on the deal by looking the other way and keeping Brett Barfield out of trouble.

“But why would the mayor have been in on it? Them two families don’t like each other—except for Brett and Maddie, I mean.”

“Mayor Harper stood to lose most of his wealth to Maddie once she turned twenty-one and inherited what her father left her,” I said. “George Harper might’ve been counting on his cut of the drug money as a hedge against that.”

J.D. looked confused. “Call it a retirement fund. And, there’s something else.” I pulled out my wallet and handed J.D. the newspaper photo of Brett. “Look at this real good and tell me who it reminds you of.”

J.D. gave the clipping a quick glance and shrugged. “It’s Brett Barfield. That’s his senior picture.”

I nodded. “But look again. The shape of the face, that cleft in his chin. You’ve seen the Harper Realty billboards around town. Friendly George?”

J.D. looked from the clipping to me, his eyes wide. “Wait a minute, are you saying . . . ?”