The Shop (15 page)

Scott Emerson suggested to Jolie that they take a walk around Harbor Village. “It’s too nice to be inside.”

“Don’t you want to change clothes first?” Jolie asked.

“No, this is fun. I don’t dress up all that often, believe it or not—too much hassle. You’re probably wondering why I got so elaborate.” He spoke in his normal voice, a honking tenor. That voice coming out of the Barbie doll face was disconcerting.

Jolie waited.

“I wanted to see how smart you were. Well, actually, I wanted to see if you were as dumb as Detective Jeter. Completely clueless, not to mention deeply prejudiced.”

“You think he didn’t do enough?”

“Honey, he didn’t do
anything
! You have no idea what it’s like to be a second-class citizen. How did you figure out who I was?”

“It was the hair.”

“Looks kind of fake, doesn’t it? It’s real human hair, but it still doesn’t look right. Especially under those lights. Eating at the Waffle House is like eating under klieg lights. Anything else give me away?”

“Your car.”

He smiled and his Adam’s apple bobbed. She wished she’d noticed that earlier. “You’re right. No self-respecting girl would drive around without hubcaps.” He cradled his boobs for emphasis.

“And then there’s your ass.”

“My—?” His hand flew to his lips. “Oh, honey,
that
is just plain junkyard dog
cruel
!”

Jolie struggled not to laugh.

“I’m getting to you, Mrs. Policeman. I can tell. So why is the PCB police department suddenly interested in a missing faggot?”

They took a walk, following in the direction of the pool.

Jolie said, “I’m not with Panama City Beach PD.”

“You’re not?” For the first time, Scott looked nonplussed. “You said you were a detective.”

“Palm County Sheriff’s Office.”

He stopped walking and looked at her. “Is he dead? You’re not notifying me because I’m the closest thing to a next-of-kin, are you?”

“I don’t know if he’s alive or dead,” Jolie said.

“Then why are you here?”

“We’re working in conjunction with Panama City Beach PD. Could you tell me what happened the last night you saw him?”

He told her that Nathan left the apartment around eight o’clock at night. The night before, he’d met a guy, “Rick,” at Cove Bar. Rick invited Nathan to go with him to a party Friday night.

Jolie asked Scott what the man looked like.

“He said he was a big guy. Not his type—he prefers someone who’s willowy, like me—and by the way, we’re just roommates. You have to understand Nathan. He’s always been a climber. Impressed by wealth, power, that kind of thing. He said that he had a feeling this was going to be a real power party.”

“Power party. Did he say where this power party was?”

“Didn’t Jeter tell you? You didn’t see his report?”

Guy was smart. “I’d like to hear your story, from you. No filters.”

“Okay, he said San Blas. That’s really it.”

“He didn’t say anything else?”

“He said I wasn’t invited.”

“You asked to go with him?”

“Oh no. I’m not the
least
bit interested in that kind of scene. He volunteered that little piece of information. Let me know that this was an exclusive party. He wanted me to be impressed that he was something special.”

“Was he? Special?”

“He was—is—a good person. Too impressed by people with money, but he grew up poor in Alabama. Father was a steel worker or a drywall installer or a tire-banger, I forget exactly what. Nate was obsessed with ‘making it.’”

Jolie asked him how he planned to do that.

“He was looking for a sugar daddy. He said he wanted to be someone’s little pet. A ‘beloved, cosseted pet,’ he said. He wanted someone to take care of him.”

“Did he ever mention a man named Luke Perdue?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Amy Perdue?”

“Wait a minute. Luke Perdue does sound familiar. Oh, I know. That was the guy who got shot up in that motel room, took the woman hostage, am I right?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think Nathan would have ever met that guy. Different circles
entirely
.”

Jolie tried him on Riley Haddox. Threw in Zoe Haddox. Nothing.

“What do you think happened to him?” Jolie asked.

“You really want to know? I think that big guy, the one who lured him to that party? I think he had his way with him—then killed him.”

Later that day, Scott took Jolie on a guided tour of Cove Bar. He insisted. She understood why. He wanted to be part of it, because he cared about his roommate, because he wanted to do the right thing, or just because he just wanted in. Jolie understood his need to do
something
. Jolie was like that, and she recognized a kindred soul in Scott Emerson, hair extensions notwithstanding.

She wanted to find out who killed Maddy and nearly killed Amy. This was the only way she could see to move the ball down the field. So in a way, she and Scott were on the same mission.

Cove Bar was as retro inside as out. A low white ceiling with mica-sparkles, black walls, black lights, a neon martini glass above the George Jetson bar. Pulsing alternative rock at odds with the time warp decor.

They must have rounded up every Formica chrome dinette set in the twenty counties.

“Technically, those tables and chairs are from the fifties,” Scott said. “But why quibble?”

He’d scrubbed off the makeup and transformed himself into a very good-looking man. Maybe a little slender, but if Jolie was fourteen, she would have had a crush on him. He wore a madras shirt, cargo shorts, boat shoes without socks: “My
Two and a Half Men
Charlie look.” His fashion statement didn’t quite fit with this crowd (not a lot of this crowd appreciated Charlie Sheen), but clearly, he didn’t care. “I hate this place,” he said.

“Well, try to hide it.”

“My mama always said, you get more flies with honey than vinegar. But I always asked her, ‘Why would you want flies?’”

They sat at the bar and ordered drinks, a shot and a beer for Scott, a Diet Coke for Jolie. She paid.

The bartender had a salt-and-pepper crew cut and the physique of a dead lifter. He said to Jolie, “I don’t drink either. Eighteen years sober, how about you?”

“Thirty-three years.”

“But when she was a baby she could really put it away,” said Scott. “You remember me?”

“How could I forget? Take it Nate still hasn’t made it home?”

“I don’t think he will, do you?”

The bartender wiped a glass and set it in the rack. “Nope.” He looked at Jolie, saw the shield on her belt. “Why don’t we go on in back? Wait here.”

“Wow,” Jolie said. “He’s cooperative.”

“He’s good people.”

A woman took over the bar, and the man with the crew cut, Darrell, led them to a tiny room off the back. He prefaced their conversation by saying, “I don’t want any trouble.”

Jolie introduced herself. “Just a few questions.”

“Okay.” Darrell turned to Scott. “I’m sincerely hoping this will be the last time.” He looked at Jolie, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. “All’s I can do is tell you what I know. Nate was kind of a regular here. Enough so I knew what he liked to drink. He was hot for older men, especially if they looked like they had money. I’ve heard some stories, but I won’t bore you with them. Let’s just say Nate had a healthy view of sexuality. A very healthy view. You could say he was inclusive. You with me so far?”

“We’re good.”

“That’s pretty much all I know personally about him. This place is a rumor mill—you don’t see a lot of gay bars in the south—and the general consensus seemed to be that Nate was pretty hot. Appealed to a certain type, the kind who wants promiscuous but vulnerable. I don’t spend a lot of my time babysitting customers, so a lot of this stuff I heard secondhand.” He leaned back and folded his arms.

“That’s it?” Scott asked. “I thought you said he talked to a guy named Rick.”

“That’s what I heard. I didn’t actually see them talking.”

Jolie asked, “You didn’t see this guy Rick?”

“I didn’t see them together. Heard later that this guy, Rick, picked Nate up. And I thought,
Good for him
.”

“Did you see them together at all?”

“Might have. But it’s hard to remember. I see a lot of stuff. This bar is a hotbed of horny young guys looking for other horny young guys. That’s the clientele.” He looked at Scott. “Most of what I know about Rick and Nate, I heard from Scott in our numerous conversations.”

Jolie ignored this. “What about his car?”

“Didn’t know it was his. I don’t sell a lot of drinks in the parking lot.”

“Did you call to have it towed?”

“The owner did. He’s out of the country at the moment. Mexico. I can give you his cell, but he’ll just tell you what I’m telling you. The car was out there for three days, so he had it towed.”

Jolie said, “What does Rick look like?”

“Big guy. Short hair. Very butch. He wore nice clothes, but you could see he was ripped.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“No. Only saw him that weekend. I’d remember a big guy like him.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty sure. He looked kind of out of place, like he wasn’t from around here. Just an impression I got.” He added, “Blazer, slacks, nice shoes. You know what he reminded me of? A bodyguard.”

“Anything else you can remember?” Jolie asked.

He thought about it. “Only that he kind of worked the room. He was everywhere. Hung out with a lot of guys. Come to think of it, they were all pretty boys. I think he was trolling for a young one.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“No. But I heard someone call him Rick.”

“You think he was looking for a boy—a particular type?”

“Looked that way to me.” He added, “I guess he found one.”

Cyril Landry was ninety-eight percent certain Franklin Haddox would tell him the truth. Landry had five IV bags of triptascoline—what Dennis Ngo at the Shop lab termed “scopolamine on steroids.” Like scopolamine, triptascoline was an anesthetic. Like scopolamine, it was an amnesic drug, only more so. Three times more so. It had been used effectively around the world as an interrogation tool. Landry had complete confidence in the drug. His only concern was the man’s fear level. Excessive adrenaline could burn the drug up in a hurry, so Landry wanted Franklin calm, happy, and stoned. It would take a minimum of forty-five minutes to get a baseline. Forty-five minutes at least before he could start the actual interrogation.

At the moment, Franklin was regaining consciousness. Landry adjusted the petcock on the IV upward just a tick. This was tricky. How would Franklin react when he realized where he was?

Franklin was propped up against stacked pillows in the forward stateroom. Landry sat beside him, his long legs stretched out past the foot of the bed. They could have been a married couple watching the evening news. Only way he could do it—even luxury cruisers like the Hinckley were tight on space. The cherry wood and teak of the cabin was mellow and, Landry hoped, soothing. The bedspread and cushions were deep blue. Restful. Franklin stirred. His expression was amiable. So far, so good.

“Hey,” Franklin said, his voice woozy. His eyes widened when he saw Landry—a small shine of fear.

“That was a nasty fall,” Landry said.

“Fall?”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not really.” Bleary smile. “You’re Nick, right?”

“Right.”

A shadow seemed to pass across Haddox’s face. Uncertainty. Landry opened the petcock a little more.

Goofy grin. “Hey! You’re my cousin!”

“That’s right. Remember I was going to interview you?”

“You were?”

“Uh-huh, for
Esquire
.”

“Oh.” His hand rose and pulled on the IV tube. “Wass that?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Let’s get to the interview, shall we?” Landry adjusted the drip and waited for it to take effect.

“What is your name?”

“Franklin Edison Haddox the Third.”

“What is your wife’s name?”

“Grace. Goodnight Gracie.” Smile.

“Do you have children?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One. No, two. Does Frank the Fourth count?”

“Sure.”

“Frank the Fourth died.” He stopped, bemused.

Landry waited.

A tear squeezed out of Haddox’s eye. “That wasn’t fair.”

Landry didn’t want to push any emotional buttons yet. He adjusted the IV up another tick.

“What were we talking about?” Haddox asked. “Hey, are we on the boat?”

Landry said, “Where do you live?”

“That’s easy. Indigo.”

“What is Indigo?”

“It’s an island. Off Cape San Blas. My family’s version of a gated community. Haven’t you seen it?” He sat up straighter. “Is your magazine going to take photos? You know we have an octagon house that was built in 1849 by Orson Fowler.” He spoke like a drunk, carefully enunciating the numbers.

“Oh. What kind of boat do you have?”

“A Hinckley T44 FB. Have you seen it?”

Loopy smile.

Landry had established Franklin’s truthfulness and willingness to talk with the control questions, leading Haddox through his occupation (attorney general); his hobbies (fishing and hunting); his daughter’s name and age (Riley, seventeen). Two sisters, one deceased. Two nieces, Kay the real estate agent and Jolie the cop; his grand-niece, Zoe, currently staying with his daughter in the guest house. He went into depth here, explaining that although Riley and Zoe were the same age, Riley was actually Zoe’s aunt. He found this endlessly entertaining. Landry pushed him—gently—to move on. Franklin told Landry his mother was long dead and his father, Franklin II, was a former senator and was once “very powerful.” Landry caught some emotion there and quickly moved to safer ground. “What’s the best fishing day you ever had?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” He gave the date, the location, the catch, and the weather conditions.

Landry wrote everything in a small spiral notebook. Even though these were throwaway questions used to establish a baseline, they could be important in putting together a picture of the man.

Landry led the attorney general into phase II. This was where he asked “reactor” questions meant to elicit emotion. He wanted to prod Haddox into reacting viscerally. He wanted to see how the man handled questions that might threaten him.

This was what he learned:

Haddox’s daughter Riley would never amount to anything. She was the biggest disappointment of his life.

His son, the apple of his eye (he actually said this), died in a drag-racing accident his senior year in high school, eight years ago.

His wife was his best friend. He was guarded about her. Landry tried to find out why, but ran into a brick wall. Franklin said twice, “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He did, however, resent the time she spent with her horses.

His father was a “great man,” but he was stubborn, arrogant, and dismissive. “I’m the attorney general of the United States of America, and he still treats me like a child. I got farther up the ladder than
he
ever did.”

Franklin added, “Now he’s got dementia, he’s still stubborn and dismissive, but he’s nuts, too. Living with him is like
Groundhog Day
—he can blame me for the same thing over and over.”

Franklin hated celebrities, especially Hollywood liberals. “They’re what’s wrong with America. They’re bringing us down. They have no morals, but God, are they self-righteous! What an example to set for Riley—you can see why she’s so messed up.”

A diatribe followed, morphing into how President Stephen Baird had kept the country safe. He “almost eradicated terrorism in our time,” but then he died and now “that woman,” nothing but a placeholder, was the president of the United States.

“You can’t work with her. You wouldn’t believe what a fucking hillbilly she is. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing, she should be running bake sales for the PTA, and here she is, the most powerful person in the world. And she has no idea how to use that power. Grace defends her. I guess women stick together, am I right?”

He rambled on. Landry let him.

Now he knew the former attorney general’s sticking points. He knew just how Haddox reacted when threatened. Franklin was a master of righteous indignation. He bridled at “the ingratitude of people.” His sense of entitlement was astounding.

Landry adjusted the IV down a notch. He had to achieve just the right balance, and the triptascoline was very strong.

Landry went back to the initial questions, staying away from anything controversial. He asked Franklin his name, his age, favorite color, hobbies, what the island was like. Haddox became genial again, forthcoming. A happy drunk.

He was primed.

Now the interrogation would begin.