Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jankowski's Porsche was at SeaLand Properties. I parked next to it and had an impulse to ding his door when I got out of my car. I felt good about myself, and my entire mood was an impulse. Carl had given me some pieces to my puzzle rather easily, notwithstanding the whole murder vibe he had. He was an unwilling and ignorant participant in the bigger picture. General labor, no more. Either stupid or lucky—I bet a little of both—Carl was too dumb to ask the right questions, so therefore, he was also lucky. But Dan had never been stupid, nor had he ever been lucky.
Carl had put on a good show at the beginning, though, but that was just Carl fearing a big black man on his boat. I can be rather intimidating when I want to and even when I don’t want to. My size and how I carried myself went a long way as a cop and even helped as a private investigator. Isn’t much help shopping or standing around and minding my own business, though. Sometimes, you just want to be another face in the crowd, if you know what I mean. That is the good, the bad, and the ugly.
SeaLand Properties was a small office. When I walked into the closet reception area, I was already standing at the counter. A well-dressed twenty-something man in a white sport coat, pink shirt, and green bow tie sat behind the counter. He had one of those pencil-thin beards and mustaches that look more ridiculous every time I see somebody with one. His hair was black and had so much goop in it, he looked like he was wearing a helmet. He texted on his phone as I stood there waiting for an acknowledgment. I cleared my throat, and he looked up at me, assessed my attire, and smiled. I'd seen that smile before.
“Easy, honey. I'm taken.” The poor guy looked disappointed. “Mr. Jankowski in?”
“May I ask who's inquiring?”
“Inquiring? Yes, I’m Curtis Mayfield. I'm with United Insurers of America, the UIA. I'm sure you've heard of us. We specialize in tropical protection. We're throughout the Caribbean.”
“Then why don't you call yourselves United Insurers of the Caribbean?”
“I'll be sure to bring that up at the next meeting. I’m here about a claim filed by a former client of SeaLand Properties.”
White Coat rolled his eyes, stood, and sashayed down a short hallway to a back room. I was here against my better judgment, but I wanted to stick the knife in just a bit, let good old Petey know he could start living that paranoid life now.
I heard Jankowski say, “Who? All right, send him back.”
He didn't sound happy. I knew that was nothing compared to how he would feel once he saw me standing at his door.
White Coat sashayed back to his reception desk and sat down. He picked up his cell phone and began texting again.
“Well?” I asked.
“Oh, you can go back. Office on the right,” he said, without looking up at me.
No wonder Jankowski was getting his ass handed to him by a bunch of hobos led by a fisherman. Good help is hard to find. I walked to the back room where I heard Jankowski's voice coming from and stopped at the door. He was on the phone and didn’t look up right away. I stood there with a shit-eating grin on my face and waited.
His office was bare but for a desk and a giant leather chair for Jankowski's giant leather ass. When he finally looked up, he frowned and said into the phone’s receiver, “I’ll call you back.”
He hung up the phone but picked it right back up again. His finger hovered over the push buttons, and he said, “You have three minutes before the police get here.” He punched nine-one-one, and said into the receiver, “Yes, I have a trespasser at the SeaLand Properties office. Please, send someone. He's black, about…” He looked at me and measured my height.
“Six-three,” I said.
“About six-foot-three.” He covered the phone’s mouthpiece and said to me, “Two hundred?”
“Two-twenty.”
“Two hundred twenty pounds, wearing a white cowboy hat, cutoff shorts, and a gray T-shirt. Yes, thank you.” Jankowski hung up the phone with a smirk on his face, checked his watch, and said, “Three minutes.”
A folding chair leaned against the wall. I opened it and sat down. Pushing back my Stetson, I threw up my canvas-shoed feet onto the edge of his desk.
“Clock is ticking,” he said.
“This won’t take long. I just wanted to let you know your emerald is no longer for sale.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, shit. I wanted to be the one to break the bad news. I don’t really know anything about gems, but chicks dig ’em. What do you think?”
“I think you’re making a big mistake. I think my lawyers will enjoy making your life miserable.”
“Whoa, are you threatening me?”
“No, my lawyers do all the threatening for me.”
“You just take care of the rest.”
“That’s right, Mr. Cutter.”
“Hey, you know my name.”
“Well, now we know each other.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” I leaned forward in my chair and stared hard at him. “But you’re gonna learn.”
We grilled each other for a long second. Jankowski swallowed hard and a bead of sweat rolled down from his temple. Feeling satisfied that I’d made my point, I lightened up and stood.
“All right then. Well, you take care, Petey.” As I headed for the door, I stopped short, stayed in his doorway. I turned and gave him a study, watching his eyes dart back and forth. Then he looked up at me.
“What?” Jankowski asked.
“Nothing.”
On my way out of the office, I told White Coat to hang loose. He didn't look up from his phone. I got in the orange racer, new name for my car, and started her up. The engine roared as I laid on the gas and tore ass out of the parking lot.
The cops were on their way, and I didn't want to be there. Wanted to avoid listening to Ramirez belittle me and feel the heat of Meadows’s judgment. Time to go back to the Hold Fast and let my hair down, process the day. A good detective always takes time to reflect and to plan.