Chapter THIRTY-SIX
Jock stayed at my cottage, saying he had some e-mails to catch up on. He also wanted to talk to his director and bring him up to date on what progress had been made on finding Nell Alexander’s killer. Not a whole hell of a lot, I thought.
“Not much to tell,” I said.
“Yeah, but I’ve been thinking about that Guatemalan connection.”
“If there is such a thing.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in Central America,” he said. “Maybe they’re after me and you just got in the line of fire. Mistaken identity kind of thing.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense. I’ve got hair and I’m a lot better looking than you.”
“In a feminine sort of way,” he said.
I gave him the finger, and followed J.D. out the front door. She was shaking her head, and had one of those looks on her face that I can only describe as a frown of dismay.
Breakfast was a quiet affair. She didn’t seem in the mood to engage in a lot of small talk, so I held my tongue. Finally, she said, “Do you think the Guatemalans are after you?”
“No.”
“What about that car trying to hit you?”
“I think the driver was just a drunk tourist. There’s no reason for a Guatemalan gang to be after me.”
“You don’t think whoever is trying to kill me might hire those guys to do their dirty work?”
“It’s possible, but why would they be after me?”
“Other than revenge for the shooting of Qualman, I don’t know.”
“That’s possible, I guess, but if this whale tail bunch is hiring Guatemalan gangbangers, why wouldn’t they just hire out the hit on you? Put another layer between you and the people who want you dead.”
She shook her head. “I just don’t know. Maybe they did. Qualman and Bagby definitely weren’t part of the original whale tail murders.”
“We’ll figure it out sooner or later,” I said.
“I hope so.”
By the time we reached the police station on Gulf of Mexico Drive, it was raining, a soft cold drizzle that was part of the front enveloping the island. The temperature had dropped while we were having breakfast, bringing a touch of winter to our usually sunny key. By tomorrow, the front would be gone, and we’d have clear skies for a couple of cool days, with the thermometer reaching only into the low sixties. Winter in southwest Florida didn’t amount to much.
I followed J.D. through the reception area and into her office. A stack of printouts sat on her desk, the trove from Glades Correctional. Martin Sharkey followed us into the office and shut the door. “J.D.” he said, “I’ve got more bad news. Fred Bagby woke up dead this morning.”
J.D. had a puzzled look on her face. “What do you mean?”
“He was dead in his bed when the jailers tried to get him up for chow call.”
“How?”
“They don’t know. There weren’t any obvious signs on the body. Other than the ones you left when you kicked his butt. The medical examiner will do an autopsy today, so maybe we’ll know by late this afternoon.”
“Could I have killed him?” J.D. asked.
“I doubt it. It may have been a natural death. We’ll have to wait for the M.E. Let me know if you find anything in that stuff from Glades.” Sharkey left, closing the door behind him.
“Darn,” she said. “There goes our best shot at getting information.”
“His lawyer wasn’t going to let him say anything,” I said.
“He might have if we offered him a deal.”
“You’d deal with a guy who tried to kill you?”
“If it’d get us to the one pulling the strings.”
“The puppet master,” I said.
She smiled. “That’s a good name for him.”
“Or her,” I said.
She chewed on that for a moment. “You could be right,” she said. “But there are no women prisoners at Glades.”
“Maybe Glades isn’t the connection.”
“It looks good so far. Let me see what’s in all this paper. You go on. Nobody’s going to take a shot at me in the police station.”
“I’ll come get you for lunch. You’re supposed to be at the hospital at two. We can eat downtown.”
“Okay,” she said, and gave me a little wave goodbye.
As it turned out, we didn’t make it to the hospital that day.