The Shop (14 page)

As Jolie and Louis walked back to their cars, Louis’s phone rang.

After disconnecting, he said, “We got an owner for the truck—matched the VIN number. It was stolen from an auto body shop in Panama City. Guy dropped it off three days ago—was gonna restore it to its original condition. Bad deal, huh? Now his vintage truck’s got a big dent in the rear quarter panel, and I’m sure two days in the pond didn’t do it any good.”

“It could be where he hit the post in the alley.”

“That’s what I was thinking. We’ll go on that assumption. Guess I’d better get back.”

“Guess so.”

“I’ll, uh, keep you apprised.”

“It’s okay, Louis.”

“Hey, just occurred to me. You asked me if there were any missing persons reported on Memorial Day weekend, remember? Palm County didn’t have a missing person, but Bay County did. Panama City Beach—a friend of mine took the info. There was someone—a young guy named Nathan Dial.” He gave her the contact info for the Panama City Beach PD.

“Thanks, Louis.”

“No prob.”

“Be sure to check out Amy’s phone. It could solve the case for you.”

“Okay.”

Back at home, Jolie called the Panama City Beach detective, Craig Jeter, who had taken the missing persons report on Nathan Dial. “Kid left his car at the bar, must’ve hopped a ride with somebody,” he said. “To tell the truth, I’m surprised he didn’t show up after a day or two.”

“What do you think happened?”

“Could be a number of things. Maybe he found himself a new relationship. He disappeared from a gay bar.”

“You think he’d just up and go? Leave all his stuff?”

“I’ve seen weirder. But he could just as easily have gotten into some big trouble. I wish you good luck.” He gave her what he had, which wasn’t much. Jolie got the feeling he didn’t take Dial’s disappearance seriously. Kids “took off.” She got the impression that he thought gay kids in particular could fall off the face of the earth and nobody would know where they went. Or care.

Her second call was to Scott Emerson, Nathan’s roommate. He suggested they meet at the Waffle House on Thomas Drive in Panama City Beach.

Jolie had to decide which weapon to take. She felt naked without one. Although the Palm County Sheriff’s Office had given her a replacement firearm for the SIG Sauer P226, she decided to leave it at home. It would be best to take her own weapon. She had four handguns to choose from—she chose the other SIG.

The badge, she took.

As Jolie crossed the Grand Lagoon, she saw high-rise hotels lined up along the beach like dominoes. It was bright and sunny, the sky a diaphanous blue—a beautiful day to play hooky.

Stopped at Cove Bar on the way in.

Cove Bar dated back to the early sixties, a low brick structure painted dark purple. A round sign loomed at a forty-five-degree angle above the door. According to Detective Jeter, Nathan told his roommate he planned to meet a guy named Rick at the bar on Friday night of Memorial Day weekend. From there they would go to a party.

He was never seen again.

The bar was closed. Jolie took a couple of photos of the bar and the parking lot where Nathan’s car had been left behind, then drove a mile west to the Waffle House.

She scanned the parking lot, wondering what kind of car Scott Emerson would drive. He was a college kid. It was likely he’d use cheap transportation. She thought he’d drive the Chevy Cavalier without hubcaps.

Inside, she sat at the counter, ordered a Coke, and waited. The cook in her white paper hat glanced at her inquiringly, and Jolie shook her head. The cook turned back to the griddle and didn’t look at her again.

Jolie knew she was skating right on the edge—first talking to the PCB detective, and now meeting with Scott Emerson. If Skeet found out, she had no doubt he’d use it against her. But nobody at the Palm County Sheriff’s Office knew about Nathan Dial except for Louis. And Louis was a little busy right now, trying to solve her case.

By a quarter past two, Jolie realized Scott Emerson wasn’t coming.

She called and got his voice mail. She’d wait another ten minutes and then give it up. A young woman went by and sat on the stool at the end of the counter. The girl could have been sashaying down a runway. She made a big production of setting her rose-pink alligator bag down on the stool next to her and checking her phone. Jolie caught the potent combination of perfume, tanning oil, and beach sand—a Panama City Beach girl. Long blonde mane—Jolie guessed, hair extensions. Makeup troweled on, but she was still beautiful. Halter top that matched the bag, bare brown midriff, tiny short-shorts, stork legs ending in translucent sandals on five-inch heels. Fiddling with her bejeweled cell phone, every gesture over the top. A girly-girl.

Jolie had never looked that good. Didn’t think she’d want to. She liked to watch other people, but didn’t like them watching her.

The beach girl ordered lunch, flirting with the heavyset female cook, speaking in a high baby voice, ordering waffles, cheese eggs, and hash browns, “scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked.”

Little girl with a big appetite.

Jolie tried Emerson again.

Christina Aguilera’s “Can’t Hold Us Down” blared down the counter. The beach girl consulted her phone—she made a big production of it.

Jolie punched in Emerson’s number again.

“Can’t Hold Us Down” sounded again. The girl looked at her phone again and dropped it in her purse. She got up, paid the cashier, and walked out the door.

Jolie watched through the window as the beach girl walked right past the red Miata, straight to the white Cavalier. Bent from the waist to unlock the door, her rear end pushed out and up, showing off the beautiful line of her tanned legs.

Her tiny, compact butt.

Hair shiny in the sunlight.

Too
shiny. And her butt—too small. The only part of her shape that didn’t look right. She sat in the car and folded her perfect legs in.

Jolie dropped a five on the counter and hustled outside to her own car just as the Cavalier turned right on Thomas. She followed, staying back a car or two. Wondering: Why the elaborate
La Cage aux Folles
show? Was it just a lark, for her benefit? Or to make a point?

If there was a point, Jolie couldn’t see it.

They went up over the Grand Lagoon. Turned right on Albatross and left onto a dead-end road called Coleridge Lane. A right into the newly resurfaced parking lot of the Harbor Village Apartments. Blue-gray siding, white trim, nautical theme, including a ship’s wheel on the sign.

Scott Emerson and Nathan Dial lived at the Harbor Village Apartments.

She waited, parked behind a banana tree. From here she could see the girl take the walkway to building C.

Five minutes later, Jolie knocked on the door of 23C.

They were just beyond the channel markers when Nick Holloway said, “Let’s try the grouper.”

Frank said, “The grouper?”

“I’ve never fished for grouper. It’ll be a challenge.”

“You wouldn’t rather troll for kings? We could put a line in the water right now.”

“No. I’d like to go for grouper if it’s all the same to you.” That blinding smile again.

“But it’s going to take longer to get out there. We’d have to use the downriggers…” Frank paused. Trolling for kings would be faster—they’d be closer to shore, and he wanted this to be quick and painless. He supposed they could go to the nearest artificial reef, drop anchor, and hope for the best. Maybe the man would get tired of waiting, or maybe he’d get lucky. Still, Frank had to try one more time. “King mackerel’s running right now. If it was me…”

Holloway shrugged. “It’s your boat.”

A muscle in Frank’s jaw flinched. There was, implicit in Holloway’s reply, the notion that Franklin Haddox, former attorney general of the United States, was an imperfect host. “Grouper it is, then.”

Frank heard the strain in his own voice, the false cheeriness. He knew he’d been pushed into a corner. In a lifetime of politics, Frank had run into plenty of alpha dogs—especially in the White House—and he knew when someone was trying to crowd him. It felt like Holloway had Frank’s neck between his jaws and was pressing ever so slightly to make his point.

Frank had a lot of practice backing down and saving face. He thought it was wise not to fight every battle. He may have lost a few skirmishes, but he’d managed to push the president’s agenda through with virtually no compromise. Frank Haddox had met plenty of Holloways, and in the end, he’d always managed to beat them.

Frank knew this guy would zero in on any weakness and use it for his own ends, and he wouldn’t give him any ammunition. “Well, it’s a nice day for it,” he said.

Striking just the right note. He sounded like a host who was fine with anything as long as his guest was happy.

They headed into the Gulf, both of them on the flying bridge. Frank kept an eagle eye on the GPS, looking for Cap Martin’s Reef, a cluster of reef balls off Meridian Beach, but also keeping his eye on Holloway. The man scanned the Gulf. He looked like he lived on a boat. This was not the impression Frank had gotten from his book, although to be fair, there had been no mention of fishing or boats.

Holloway leaned over Frank’s shoulder. Frank could feel his cousin’s breath on his neck. He turned. “What?”

Holloway said, “We’re three miles out. International waters.”

“So?” Just then he glanced back at the GPS. “We’re over the reef,” he announced. “Let me get you rigged up.”

Too cheerful. He’d have to watch that.

An hour later and not a bite. Holloway didn’t seem concerned. Frank tried small talk, but the guy wasn’t very forthcoming. Frank thought about his manuscript down below. He’d already decided not to mention it. He just wanted to take the man back to the dock and get away from him.

Being around Nick Holloway was unsettling. It got worse as the day went on. Frank felt absolutely nothing coming from him, like he was a hole in the air, a dead zone. Guy was a cipher, with his baseball cap pulled low, the sunglasses, the Croakie. The sun became increasingly oppressive, nailing them under its glare. Too bright, the light bouncing off the dark blue water, hurting Frank’s eyes. The uneasiness in his gut settled in. Whenever his mind wandered, it went to disturbing images, like the report of a grisly homicide he’d seen on Fox News last night, or Somalian pirates seizing a cruise ship.

It was lonely out here today. He saw only one other boat, at least a mile away. This shouldn’t bother him, but it did. It added to the bad feeling in his gut.

Frank didn’t dare look at the guy head-on. He had no doubt Holloway could read his mind. So he busied himself with lures, drink and snack offerings, frequently checking his own lines, all the while tracking Holloway from the corner of his eye.

Then it came to him that the guy didn’t just seem alien. He looked
different
. Different from the man he’d expected.

He had Holloway’s book,
Hype
, down below. Planned to ask Nick to sign it, but that wasn’t an option now. He wanted to divest himself of the book as quickly as he was going to divest himself of its author.

“Can I get you something stronger?” he asked. Cheerful—too cheerful.

“No, thanks.”

“I think I’ll get something for myself then.”

He ducked into the cabin, went to the cupboard above the galley, and pulled out the book. Closed his eyes for a moment, his heart thumping hard.

Opened the book to the photo on the back flap.

He wasn’t surprised.

Could
have been him—there was a passing resemblance—but Frank knew the Nick Holloway he was hosting right now was not the Nick Holloway on the book cover. The jawline in the photo was too soft. The shape of the face too wide. The eyes…well, he hadn’t seen the man’s eyes since they’d met, but he doubted the man fishing from his boat had ever looked anxious.

Even in a headshot, the author didn’t look like a big man.

And the way the author was dressed—as if he’d pulled his clothes out of a trash bag.

Okay, if the guy up on deck wasn’t Nick Holloway, who was he?

A thrill of fear went through him—it was the feeling he’d always imagined people in a jetliner felt when the plane went down fast. Pure terror.

The man out there fishing from his boat was the reason he’d hired a new security detail. The reason he had three bodyguards, none of whom was on this boat right now—

Cardamone
.

There was buzzing in his ears. He couldn’t feel his hands. The screaming jetliner was gaining speed, the fear stark and real, adrenaline hurtling through him.

The man was here to kill him.

He needed a plan. A plan, a plan.
Concentrate!

Here he was in the cabin of his beautiful boat, and he could barely register what he was looking at. The air seethed with visible molecules—the cabin seemed to swim before his eyes.

A shadow filled the narrow doorway, blocking the sun. He started to turn in Holloway’s direction, but he didn’t make it all the way.

The next thing he knew, something stung his neck. A wasp maybe.

After that, nothing.