CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
“Another one of the Otto Foundation kids was killed a couple of weeks ago in Birmingham,” I explained to the chief. We were standing outside the hotel breathing in the humid air. The traffic on Tamiami Trail a block to the east was light, the city quiet in the wee hours as if resting before plunging into the tumult of another hot day in August. “He was shot in what might have been a bar fight. It’s probably nothing, but I’d like to talk to the detective investigating the case.”
“You think there’s a connection between Desmond’s murder and this boy in Birmingham? Did they know each other?”
“Probably not, on both counts. I doubt there’s a connection and the boys probably didn’t know each other. Jim Desmond was in Laos five years ago and this kid in Birmingham, Andy Fleming, was there last year. He might not even have been in Laos. He could have been in Cambodia or Vietnam. I didn’t think to ask Mrs. Avera about that. But it’s a loose end that I’d like to tie up.”
“I’ll call Birmingham P.D. Nobody’s going to roust the detective from bed this time of morning, so why don’t you guys go home. I’ll call them at eight. They’re an hour behind us, so I’ll probably catch them right at shift change. I’ll let you know. Now go home.”
Much to my surprise, I slept hard. The jangle of the phone brought me out of a deep sleep. I looked at the bedside clock radio as I reached for the phone. It was a little after eight. I’d slept for almost four hours. I looked at the caller ID. A blocked number. I answered.
A man’s voice dripping an Old South accent said, “Matt Royal?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Bagger Dobbs, Birmingham P.D. Your chief called mine and mine told me to call you on the Fleming case.”
“I appreciate the call, Detective. Did your chief tell you what our connection is?”
“Only that it might have to do with a kidnapped cop.”
“This may be a wild-goose chase, but what can you tell me about the case?”
“It’s pretty cut and dried. The kid was at a titty bar called The Booby Hatch. It’s a rough place out on the edge of town. Bad neighborhood. He was walking out of the bar when he was shot in the back.”
“I had the impression there was some sort of altercation at the bar.”
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. It looks like the kid was on his way home. He’d had a couple of drinks, but his blood alcohol was only zero point three. He was shot just as he was opening his car door.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A rifle. Big slug. We think a thirty-caliber.”
“We had a shooting here on the island. Used a thirty-caliber rifle. Did you find the bullet that killed Fleming?”
“Yeah. It was embedded in the front seat of his car. Went clear through him.”
“I’d like to see if the slugs match up as coming from the same weapon,” I said.
“I’ll send the information down to Chief Lester. He’ll have it in the next few minutes.”
“Thanks. Any other leads?”
“We have one witness, but he’s not much help. He was pretty drunk coming out of the bar, but he said he saw a car rushing out of the parking lot right after he heard the shot.”
“I guess he didn’t get a tag number.”
“No,” said the detective, “he didn’t even notice the make of the car. All he could tell us was that the driver appeared to be Asian. Maybe a woman.”