“Is Mr. Brennen here?”
“Senior or junior?”
“Junior.”
“And you are…?”
I could detect that her guard dog training was about to come off the leash. I quickly said, “It’s about the campaign. I’m trying to find the—“
“The fundraiser?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re a little late, honey, but not too late. The barbeque will be goin’ on ‘till about eight or nine, I suspect.”
“That’s what I assumed. Is it here?”
A smile. The guard was down. “Heavens no, it’s the ranch.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t GPS the exact directions.” I looked at the nameplate on her desk. “Carla, that’s why I wound up lost. As a man, I have no problem asking for directions.”
An eyebrow stencil arched. “Darlin’, you aren’t alone. Been a half dozen people callin’ the office, lost like sheep without a shepherd. You gotta be the last one…Mr. Hayes. Right? I’m glad you finally got here.”
She started drawing a map. “Come here, sweetie, I’ll show you a shortcut.”
The Brennen place would have been easy to find without the hand-drawn map. Simply follow the Mercedes, Escalades, and Jaguars in a convoy. At least I’d washed the Jeep. I pulled in behind a dark Lincoln and waited my turn to go through the front gate. A rent-a-guard, starched white shirt, narrow pimply face, serious and unsmiling, held a clipboard and asked for names.
“Hayes,” I said. His eyes scanned the list. He started to ask me something when a white limo pulled in close. The boy guard waved me onto the Brennen estate.
Farming had been good to the Brennens. I figured the winding driveway was a quarter mile long, bordered by freshly painted white fences that held prize cattle to the left and champion horses to the right. The house was the kind found on magazine covers or profiled on the Travel Channel. Its size, and the Old South, antebellum feel, made a statement. Members only.
Cars lined up in the large circular drive to be valet parked. I picked a spot between a Lexus and a Lincoln and backed in the Jeep. The smells of charcoal, burning hickory, mesquite wood, steaks and barbecue ribs, were mixed with the smell of manure and money.
As I stepped out, my cell rang. It was Leslie Moore. “Sean, there’s some evidence missing in the case of the vic you found?”
“What do you mean, ‘missing’?”
“Forensics has everything we initially found on the victim. It was the later evidence that you and the Indian, Joe Bille, found.”
“What about it?”
“We’d already sent in the hair found on the duct tape for DNA analysis, but somehow the thread and shoe have been misplaced?”
“What do you mean misplaced?”
“We had it sealed and kept with everything. We were going to run the DNA tests on it first. But it was either misplaced or stolen.”
“I’m betting on the latter. I can’t imagine evidence being lost.”
“Unfortunately, it happens. I’ve never had it happen on my watch, though.”
“Who has access to the forensics area?”
“The ME and all of her staff. Anyone working on the case, which is only a handful of people.”
“Is Mitchell Slater one of them?”
“Yes. But why would he take it? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Yes it does”
“How?” she whispered.
“It makes sense if he’s protecting someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if Slater knows who killed the girl?”
“Why would he cover? Who would have that kind of power over Slater?”
“Powerful people, and I seem to have landed at ground zero.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I stood next to my Jeep for a moment to watch the money parade. Here were the millionaire migrants, the ones who followed the social seasons, an incestuous pollination crossbred by old money, venture capitol start-ups, bankers, lobbyists, politicians, and lawyers. The nip-tuck of Palm Beach mixed with cattle barons, horse breeders, and growers. They appointed golfing friends to environmental boards, water districts, zoning and public service commissions. Under their watch, Florida had turned into a land of tract houses, strip malls, a vanishing aquifer, a sickly Everglades, and condos lining the beaches like the Great Wall of China.
Maybe I could get a beer at the Brennens.
A wait staff stood smiling on either side of the entrance hall with trays of Champaign and wines. The guests lifted the bubbly, chards and cabs and followed white-gloved attendants towards the rear of the house. To get there, we passed a fifteen-foot-high waterfall cascading down a fieldstone wall. The water gently splashed down the stones in a dozen turrets, all spilling into an indoor koi pond.
We followed the hired catering staff and a cowboy, probably on the payroll, dressed in a denim sports coat, black silk European-cut T-shirt and black pants. The boots were a dark ostrich skin. He looked at me, trying to place my face.
Along with the real guests, I walked down a long corridor of powder blue Italian marble, descending three steps to emerge into what would be called a family room in an average house. The Brennens could have used it to hold conventions. Crown molding. Inlaid cherry wood floors. Expensive artwork with a Western flair.
Music came from the outdoor pool area. Dozens of guests sat or stood around the lushly landscaped gardens, bubbling spa, and resort-sized pool. In a corner, a three-piece band played a mix of modern country and oldies. A platoon of cooks turned thick-cut steaks and ribs on a river-stone grille big enough for a resort.
“I noticed you didn’t partake in wine or champaign when you arrived.” The voice came behind me. The woman sipped from a glass of chardonnay, leaving a lipstick kiss on the edge of the glass. She was blond, shapely, had a Jennifer Anniston smile and a diamond ring that didn’t need a “point-something” to increase the carat count. She extended her hand. “I’m Renee Roberts.”
“Sean O’Brien.”
“Nice to meet you, Sean.” Her fingers slid over the wet glass. “I haven’t seen you at a Brennen function before.”
“Is that what this is, a function?”
“A barbecue, but it’s a fundraiser, sort of in disguise. Junior will say a few words. We’ll all cheer and write checks. Not that the Brennens really need them. But the more contributions, the better it looks on the books, right?”
“Depends on who’s looking.”
She smiled and sipped. “What are you drinking?”
“Think they have beer?”
“This is a barbecue, after all.” She lifted a perfectly manicured hand with a quick Saudi princess-like beckon. She caught the eye of a young male waiter.
“Yes, ma'm,” he said
“Bring my friend a beer, and I’ll take a vodka tonic.”
“My pleasure. What kind of beer, sir?
“Corona, if you have it.”
He nodded and left. Renee Roberts turned to me, her lips wet with wine, her eyes playful. “Sean O’Brien sounds Irish. It doesn’t look like you have a freckle or a red hair on your body. You look more like that actor, the James Bond guy.”
“Sean Connery?”
“No…Pierce Bronsnan, but taller…wider shoulders. I think he’s English.”
The waiter brought the drinks and left. I took a full swallow from the bottle. “My, aren’t we thirsty,” she said, with a smile that had less lipstick.
“Been a long day.”
She sucked a piece of ice from her vodka. “How do you know the Brennens?”
“By reputation.”
“So, you don’t do business with them?”