CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Seventy-Fifth Street West is a north-south artery linking Manatee Avenue to Cortez Road. The apartment complex where Doremus lived was only about five miles from the Cortez Bridge that led to Anna Maria Island. It was late morning when I knocked on the door. A black man opened it. He was in his late sixties or early seventies. He had a head full of gray hair, a face that easily wrinkled into a grin when he greeted us, and a voice that was deep and Southern.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
“My name is Matt Royal. This is Jock Algren. I’m a lawyer on Long-boat Key, and I’m trying to find John Doremus.”
“You’ve found him. I’m John Doremus.”
“Sir,” I said, “the man I’m looking for is white and about forty years old.”
He grinned. “You’ve probably noticed that I don’t fit either of those descriptions.”
“Do you own a home in Charlotte, North Carolina?”
“I do. Y’all come on in and tell me what you want with a white guy with my name.”
The condo was large and tastefully furnished and neat as a pin. The only sign of disorder was the pile of newspapers lying on the floor next to a recliner. It looked like the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, and the Sarasota Herald-Tribune. Doremus caught my glance at the papers and said, “I like to keep up with what’s going on in the world. Have a seat and tell me what I can do for you gentlemen.”
“I was surprised to find you here in August,” I said.
“I live here year round. My wife lives in the house in Charlotte. We’re separated. Seems to make the marriage better.” He chuckled.
“We came up with your name by running a property search in both Charlotte and this area,” I said. “You popped up, but you’re obviously not the man we’re looking for.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
“Do you remember the murders on the dinner cruise boat about two months back?”
“Sure. That was the big news around here. At least for a couple of days.”
“The man we’re looking for is a person of interest in those murders.”
“What’s your interest, Mr. Royal, if I may ask?”
“I’m representing a family whose son was killed the same day over on the beach. The murders may be connected. Jock and I are trying to find this guy named Doremus to see if he can help us out.”
Jock stirred in his chair. “Mr. Doremus, can you think of why someone would be using your name in Charlotte?”
“No. Why?”
“It could explain why a white guy has an unusual name, a name that shows up owning property in both areas,” said Jock.
“That doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Doremus. He was silent for a beat, then, “Can you describe the white guy?”
“Six feet tall, heavyset with a belly, short, dark hair that he parts in the middle, acne scars, a receding chin, northern accent, very white teeth. He wears diamond rings on each pinkie.”
“Crap,” said Doremus. “That’s Chick Mantella. He’s sort of my nephew.”
“Nephew?” I was surprised. As far as I knew the guy was white.
“Sort of. Thirty years ago my brother Arthur married a white woman who had a small son from a previous marriage. That was Chick. Arthur raised him, gave him a good home, but Chick turned out to be an a*shole. Never could hold a job for more than about three months.”
“Is Chick his given name or a nickname?”
“His real name is Chesley Ambruster Mantella, Jr.
“No wonder they call him Chick,” said Jock.
“Where does he live?” I asked.
“Charlotte, but he comes here a lot. Stays in my spare room. He’s not a bad guy, just full of shit.”
“Why do you put up with him?”
“His mother’s a sweetheart. My brother’s been ill for a long time and she’s hung in there. Takes great care of him. Putting up with her son is a little bit of payback for all she does for Arthur.”
“When was he here last?” Jock asked.
Doremus thought for a moment. “He was here when the murders took place. I remember, because he left abruptly. Didn’t even say goodbye. I was out with a lady friend that evening and when I got home, he’d packed up and gone. Left a note saying he had to get back to Charlotte.”
“Have you heard anymore from him?”
“No, but I talk to his mom regularly. I know he was back in Charlotte living with her.”
“Does he work that you know of?”
“I don’t think so. His biological father died about two years ago and left him a bunch of cash. That’s when he bought those gaudy rings. Hasn’t hit a lick at a snake since.”
“Mr. Doremus,” I said, “I know Chick is kin and all, but can I ask you not to tell him about our visit?”
“Not to worry, Mr. Royal. I don’t like the kid much, and I sure don’t want to have anything to do with a man who’s involved in a murder.”
“We don’t know that he is. We just want to talk to him. Can you find out if he’s still in Charlotte?”
Doremus hesitated, a look of resignation on his face. “I don’t want to, but I know the family you’re representing must be hurting. I’ll call his mom tonight and let you know.”
I gave him my card, shook hands, and left.