CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was an on-ramp to Interstate-75 a block south of the foundation offices. I drove onto it and headed south to Bradenton. Eight hours later I was crossing the Longboat Pass Bridge. It was six o’clock in the evening, and Tiny’s was on my way home. I went in, took a stool, and ordered a Miller Lite. Debbie Messina was behind the bar. She gave me a hug and the beer and said she’d heard I’d been off-island for a couple of days. Nothing gets past the island bartenders.
It was quiet in the doldrums of summer. The usual snowbirds who would be found having an afternoon drink in Tiny’s during the winter months, were tucked away in bars in Minneapolis or Chicago or Quechee, Vermont, or someplace where the humidity was not as lethal as it was on Longboat Key. I was alone with Debbie for about five minutes when Les Fulcher came in and took the stool next to mine.
“How’s the knee?” I asked. “Painful. Look, I heard that you’re looking into the murder of the guy who got shot down on the beach last month.”
There are no secrets on the island. “That’s right.”
“I went by to see Janice Prather last night.”
“How’s she holding up?”
“She’s okay. Her daughter lives in Bradenton, so she’s there to help Janice over the rough spots.”
“I’m glad she’s got family in the area.”
“She told me something that I thought was interesting.”
“What?”
“On the day Jake died, he told Janice about a man who’d been on the boat the past three evenings. He didn’t eat, but spent the entire cruise standing up near the bow with binoculars. At first Jake thought he might be a bird-watcher, but he was still there after it got dark. No birds out then. The guy was making notes on a pad and taking snapshots before it got too dark.”
“Strange. Did he describe the man to Janice?”
“No. And she didn’t ask. It was just one of those odd things that she remembered. I thought you might want to pass that on to the lady detective you’re working with. I know she’s investigating all the murders.”
“Thanks, Les. Probably just a lonely tourist, but I’ll let her know.” I finished my beer and left for home. I fired up my computer and checked my e-mail. There was a note from Meredith with a video and about a hundred still pictures of the wedding attached in a zip file. I decided to wait to open it until J.D. and I could look at it together.
I called the detective. “I’m back.”
“Man, I’m glad. I missed you something terrible.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t even know you were gone.”
“Some friend. I’ve been in Savannah talking to Meredith Desmond.” She snickered. “Oh, right. You mentioned that. Did you do any good up there?”
“A bit. And I’ve got a bunch of pictures and a video from the Desmond wedding. Why don’t you stop by and we’ll look at them together?”
“I’ll be there in about an hour.”
I went back to the computer and typed up some notes of my meetings with Meredith and Bud Stanley. I wanted our off-the-record file to be complete in case we ever made it an on-the-record file. Besides, I knew that the notes would better preserve the discussions than my memory would. I e-mailed copies to Doc.
I took a shower, dressed in a clean T-shirt and cargo shorts, and opened a bottle of Chardonnay. I’d read somewhere that you should let the wine breathe before serving it. If you let beer breathe, it goes flat. I like the fact that the only ritual associated with beer is the opening of the can.
The video was like every one you ever saw of a wedding, except this one was on a white sand beach. The members of the wedding party were dressed in tuxedos and gowns, the bride’s white dress a confection of beauty. Everybody was barefoot.
There were a lot of still photos, many of the bride and groom, of the entire wedding party, the parents of the bride and groom, and candid pictures from the reception. There was nothing in any of them that raised alarms. There were no pictures of an Asian man. Another dead end.
I gave J.D. copies of the memos I’d written about my conversations with Meredith and Bud Stanley. “Read these and I’ll answer any questions you have.”
She took a few minutes to peruse the printouts. “Do you think this Soupy could have sent a hit team to take out Jim Desmond?”
“It’s not as far-fetched as it sounds. Asians put a lot of emphasis on what they call ‘face.’ Soupy’s a big deal in that part of the world. He might very well have figured that the only way to get his mojo back after Jim whipped him was to kill Jim.”
“Mojo?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s mojo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe like machismo.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you think mojo is?”
“I don’t really care,” she said. “How can we dig further into Soupy? Maybe find out if he’s the one behind this.”
“The whole idea of me getting involved in this was to find a likely target and file suit. The problem here is that I’d never get jurisdiction over Soupy or his organization. I could never show that he was in this country or was responsible for any acts that took place here. Until you get a court to accept jurisdiction, you can’t do anything with the case.”
“Would it be worth a try?”
“No. Even if we could figure a way to get around the jurisdiction issue, I don’t know how we’d serve Soupy with the lawsuit. Even then, if he simply didn’t respond, the only thing we could do is get a default judgment entered and then we’d have no reason to take depositions to prove the case. The default would work just as if Soupy admitted to all allegations. There’d be no reason to take depositions, and the court wouldn’t let us issue subpoenas. The default wouldn’t produce any evidence and would be meaningless in a criminal court.”
“We need to find out more about this Soupy guy.”
I thought for a minute. “There’s always Jock.”
“Ah, the magic man. Will he do it?”
“He will if I ask nicely. Probably have to buy him a bottle of wine or something.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“I think I’ll ask him to come for a visit. He hasn’t been here in a couple of months.”
“You sure he’ll come? It’s hot here,” she said. “It’s hot in Houston, too.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“You want to go to Pattigeorge’s for a drink?”
“Sure. Is Sam back from vacation?”
“Yeah. Some vacation,” I said. “Where’d he go?”
“St. Armands. Sat around and drank for a week.”
“Wow.”
St. Armands was the next island south connected to Longboat Key by the New Pass Bridge. Sam could take the trolley back and forth so he wouldn’t have to drive. And as he pointed out, the trolley doesn’t make him go through metal detectors to board.