I left with the feeling that Ginny Alexander’s financial problems included more than the house. I could identify. Punching up the smartphone app for my bank, I checked the account balance and winced. I had to sell something or I’d be out of business by summer, so I drove back to the office with the intention of straightening the place and making some calls. I’d contact Jackie and Kurt Stevens and drop by their house for the Meet Jesus talk. Even if their home sold for less than the asking price, I’d still clear enough to last until we found Pap. But before that, I’d stick to my Saturday routine and stop by the farmer’s market to refuel. I’d get my coffee if I had to fly to Hawaii and pick the beans myself.
Taking the bridge to the mainland, I headed north on Tamiami Trail, passing the major landmarks in the city, the marina and the Ringling Bridge and the Spanish Point office tower. Traffic crawled through condo canyon by Baywalk and the performing arts center but thinned the further north I drove. I had just merged left into the turning lane for my office when I spotted the tentacles of the TV news vans, hulking white trucks bristling with satellite dishes and booms, emblazoned with familiar logos and slogans—Action News, Gulf Coast News Network, ABC, Fox, even CNN. Not twenty-four hours had passed since Robert Lee Darby spread his venom and the media had made the connection.
To the angry blare of car horns, I raced through the light, pulled into a service station and called Delgado.
“I need your help,” I said when he picked up.
“What’s wrong?” His voice reminded me of boots on gravel, the sound of a cop displeased with an uncooperative witness.
“Someone broke into my office and the media are camped out there. I need to work. Can you get rid of them?”
I thought I heard him snort. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You ever hear of a free press?”
“I thought you were here to serve and protect?”
This time he did snort. “So now you want me to protect you.”
“Never mind. I’ll tell the vultures what I really think of the investigation.”
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t hang up. We should meet.”
“I’m tired,” I said. “Can we make this quick? The farmer’s market closes at one and I haven’t had my coffee yet.” I heard the whine in my voice and mentally smacked my forehead.
“OK,” he said. “I’ll meet you at Java Jive in fifteen.”
The first to arrive, I took up a position at the big red truck parked near Main Street. As I stood in line and smelled the beans and brew, I thought I’d faint.
Two minutes later, Det. Tony Delgado sidled up and said, “I’ve got it. What do you want?”
“Colombian, Grande, black.” I pointed toward the empanada stand behind us. “You want one?”
He nodded. “Spicy beef.”
I ordered two, the pastry edges crimped and golden, and tossed napkins and packets of hot sauce in the bag. Delgado walked over with the coffee and we sat at a table outside a Spanish-looking restaurant done in yellow adobe, with iron bannisters on the second floor and flowers spilling through the grillwork. We sipped and ate and listened to a group of junior-high kids play rock on instruments they’d made from cereal boxes, plastic toys and garbage cans. They looked tall and scraggly, as if their chins had just considered the idea of sprouting hair, but did a passable job on a Beatles tune.
Delgado blotted his lips, folded the napkin in half and tucked it under his cup. He wore khakis with badge and holster in plain view and a white polo shirt that fit tightly in the arms and chest. Law enforcement chic. A bit distracting.
I sipped coffee. After the hot sauce, the liquid burned my lips but I didn’t care. Between the sunshine and the caffeine, I felt myself revive. I also felt determined to keep my personal issues personal.
“So,” I said over the rim, “what’s so urgent?”
“You paid a visit to Ms. Alexander this morning.”
“How do you know that?”
“You gave us permission to track your phone.”
“I didn’t make any calls from there.”
“You don’t need to,” he said. “We can trace the signal to within three meters.”
I sipped some more coffee. “That’s reassuring.”
“What did you discuss, if I may ask?”
“Well, detective. . . .”
“Tony.”
I nodded, although I didn’t feel completely comfortable using his given name. “She’s putting her house on the market and has asked me to list it.”
He pursed his lips, which made his cheekbones pop. Very distracting.
“Did she say anything about her husband and where he might be hiding?”
“No. She claims she doesn’t have a clue, or care.”
“Is she telling the truth?”
“Hard to tell,” I said.
I told him about Claire’s visit and the girl’s insistence she didn’t know her father’s location, either. He nodded.
“That’s all I have,” I said. “How about you?”
“Darby hasn’t used his credit cards or passport. We reviewed the footage from the ferry where he allegedly committed suicide. You can see him place the note on a pile of clothes and jump but that’s all. He’s not showing up at motels or airports or car rental agencies—only your office.”
The band had stopped playing. I gave Delgado a look that could wither an acre of wheat and rose to drop a few dollars in the tip jar. “He’s using a bike.”
“Right,” he said. “You did tell us that.”
My phone rang. I dug it out of a pocket and hesitated when I didn’t recognize the caller. “If someone had given the media my cellphone number. . . .”
Glancing at the screen, Delgado motioned for me to sit. “Put it on speaker.” When he moved his chair next to mine, I smelled the faint scent of soap.
“CW McCoy,” I said.
“BL Darby,” he said. “I know you’ve got a trace on this so I’ll make it brief. What kind of progress are you making?”
My stomach flipped. “After I talk with my grandfather.”
“He’s not here.”
I listened to the tinny voice and stared at the screen clicking off the seconds and felt a giant hand squeeze my chest. “Where is he?”
“Now, Candy,” Darby said. “You know I can’t tell you that. All you need to know is that he’s somewhere safe.”
His voice sounded smooth and casual, as if we were two buddies setting a tee time.
“You still there?”
The possibilities were infinite, and none of them good. I swallowed. “Yes.”
“So what progress have you made?”
A vision of the man in my office flooded my head, his face too broad for his body, cheeks puffy, eyes hard as agate. Delgado twirled his index finger in a circle, stepped away from the table and pulled out his phone.
“I talked to your former wife this morning,” I said, watching the detective’s shoulders as he barked into the phone and returned to the table. “She doesn’t like you very much.”
“You told her I’m back?”
“I’ve told everyone you’re back.”
“Why?” He sounded puzzled.
“More people to track you down.”
“Ganging up on me?”
“Your daughter’s on your side.”
“Claire?” he said.
“She stopped by this morning to plead your case.”
Delgado put a hand over his phone and mouthed, “Keep him talking.”
“What’s that noise in the background?” Darby asked, an edge to his voice.
“The farmer’s market. Where are you?”
He chuckled.
“Does Claire know where you are?”
“Nice try.”
“You’re putting her in danger.”
“She’s a knucklehead but she means well, and you know I do, too. I’m sorry but this was the only way to get your attention.”
“Where’s my grandfather?”
“You have a one-track mind.” He sighed. “He’s in a safe place. I didn’t think you’d exactly jump at the opportunity to help, so I took out a little insurance.”
“How astute,” I said. “My grandfather is in his eighties. He has a nasty combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s disease. He wanders and falls a lot. Can you handle that responsibility?”
“I’ve got it covered.”
I looked for Delgado but he’d disappeared. “You going to add manslaughter to the list of charges?”
When he spoke, his voiced sounded hard. “You need to stop talking and find out who framed me. Then you get to see your precious pappy.”
“How do I know he’s alive?”
“I’ll send you an ear, and keep one as a souvenir.”
“You are such a scumbag.”
“Sticks and stones,” he said. “Just so we’re clear, I’ve given you a job. It’s up to you to determine the execution . . . no pun intended.” And he disconnected.
All the anger I’d suppressed came raging back. I stared at the phone as if it had refused to find Pap. Then I called Oz.
“Darby just called. Did you trace him?”
“Delgado’s on it.”
“Where’s Darby?”
I heard keystrokes. “On the water off Spanish Key.”
“Can you dispatch somebody?”
“SPD Marine’s on the way,” he said, “although Darby’ll toss the phone before they get there.”
“Delgado just left. He’s not telling me squat. I need more information.”
“You want to meet me at the marina?”
“Where?” I asked.
“The dolphin fountains by the restaurant.”
“When?”
“An hour.”
I called Walter and Cheryl and left messages and headed to Pap’s. Ripping the crime-scene tape from the door, I stormed into my room. From under the bed I slid the metal box onto my lap, popped the lock with the key I kept around my neck and withdrew the Beretta .25. Unlike police-issued weapons, it had a single-action trigger—you pulled once and it fired, no stops in between. Eight rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber, no safety lock. I set the gun on the floor with the rag and went to work, the tang of oil filling my nose, the image of Darby’s canine smile polluting my thoughts. I rammed the magazine home and chambered a round. Strapping the holster to my ankle, I stood and practiced dropping to a knee and drawing the weapon, aiming at his imaginary heart. If he had one.
Even gripped in both hands, the gun shook. Is this what my father had done? Had he smashed mom’s head with the butt of a pistol and then torched his own house? I felt the blood rise up my neck to scorch my face, old blood, bad blood, the sins of the father visited on the daughter, the fire of anger and frustration coursing through my veins. I gulped air. Unbuckling the holster, I put the works back in the lockbox and shoved it under the bed, praying that Delgado would find the bastard first.