Big John was already starting to sweat. He wiped his wide forehead with a bar napkin. Kim took his order and stepped over to the window to give it to Sam.
A charter boat captain I recognized came in and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a bloody Mary and dry wheat toast. I was glad for the interruption.
Leslie was getting out of her car. Even from the distance, I could tell she was exhausted. She approached, non-smiling.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
“Want some coffee?” I asked. “Maybe we can sit at a table.”
“Can we get the coffee to go?”
Kim overheard and said, “How would you like it?”
“Black, please.”
“Make it two,” I said.
Kim poured the coffee in two large Styrofoam cups. “On the house.”
“Thanks.” I handed one cup to Leslie.
She took it and turned to leave. I followed, and at the large open breezeway I asked, “You okay?”
“We have to go somewhere we can talk.” Her eyes were red and tired. “This is getting much deeper, Sean. And I’m starting to get really scared.”
FORTY-EIGHT
I pointed toward the south side of the marina. “Past the charter boats is another pier. It goes pretty far out into the marina and into the bay. There’s a bench at the end of it. We can talk there.”
Leslie was silent as we walked. A brown pelican sailed over us like a silent glider plane, its thick body casting a shadow across the moored boats.
Leslie looked out over the Haifax River and sipped the coffee. “Someone definitely has his claws into Mitchell Slater. First I assumed it was well-heeled old money backing him for sheriff. Now I’m not so sure.”
I said nothing, letting Leslie gather her thoughts.
“About three months ago, Slater and I were on a drug trafficking stakeout. We were camped across from a strip joint called the Club Platinum. The guy who owned the place, a sleazebag named Tony Martin, was supposedly dealing in a lot more than skin.”
“Prostitution?”
“That’s a given. He fenced for the Colombian Cartel. Martin was said to have been one of the main distributors on the east coast of Florida for cocaine. Supplied all the high rollers, lawyer bikers who wore leather during Bike Week and played hard, race fans with private suites at the track. You name it, whatever came into Daytona Beach on chrome wheels or private jets, Martin and his posse were the suppliers.”
“Is this Tony Martin still the kingpin or is he now dealing behind bars?”
“Neither. He’s dead.”
“Double-cross one of his suppliers?”
“We don’t know. He was found in the front seat of his new convertible Mercedes with half his head blown off. Whoever hit him did it in the very early morning. The ME put time of death at about 4:00 a.m. Martin’s club closed at two in the morning. He’d just gotten in his car. He’d put the top down, and someone stepped up and killed him.”
“No witnesses and probably no evidence, right?”
Leslie turned toward me. “It was one of the last cases I worked with Slater. He made the cursory calls. Asked all the whodunit questions from strippers to club deejays to busboys. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary that night.”
“Then the question is, who wanted Martin dead?”
“He crossed swords with competition, dealers, you name it, but we had no hard evidence against anyone. When Slater and I were interviewing the club staff, I noticed that one girl was more emotional about Martin’s death than the others. She got teary, admitted she’d been seeing Martin and said he’d treated her very well. I’d pressed Slater about a follow-up with the woman. Back in the office, he told me that stripper’s have, quote, shit for brains, they’re drugged half the time and aren’t credible witnesses.”
“What’d you do?”
“I went back without Slater. The girl had quit. No one knew where she’d gone. Seemed she’d vanished. Then three days ago I got a call, an anonymous tip. The caller said I could find her at a club called High Moon in Tampa.”
“Any voice that you even remotely might recognize?”
“Female, and I didn’t recognize it. Call came from a pay phone. I learned the girl we were trying to locate worked the day shift at the club. Yesterday I went there alone.”
“What’d she tell you? Why’d she leave the Daytona club?”
“Afraid for her life.”
“Why?”
“Because she heard a murder.”
“Heard?”
“The girl’s real name is Robin Eastman. She said she was at her apartment the night of the murder. She told me that Martin had called her to tell her he was on his way. His cell was built into his car, so he wasn’t holding a phone to his ear when the hit went down. She said he was bringing a bottle of her favorite wine, a chardonnay made by Blackstone. Anyway, she said they were saying ‘bye when she heard Martin say, ‘Are you a cop? Show me some fucking ID.’ She said there was a pause and heard the other person, a man say, ‘Get out of the car and come with me.’ She said Martin yelled, ‘Hell no, I’m not going anywhere with you.’ She said the next thing was a gunshot.”
“Do you believe her?”
“We’d found a bottle of Blackstone chardonnay on the floorboard.” Leslie paused and looked at me. “The stripper said something else.”
“What?”
“She said the voice, the cop, sounded like Slater.”
I looked down at one of the pilings covered with barnacles and thought about what Leslie had told me. I watched the dark water escaping toward the estuary and river. Small crabs scaled the barnacles like old men climbing mountains.
Leslie said, “I think it’s Slater. I believe he may be a hit man for organized crime. What if he’s the one who killed the two women, our vics?”
“Is there a connection between the migrant murders and the killing of a strip club owner? What secret is so big a senior police detective would kill to protect it?”
“I wouldn’t have made a connection before you told me about Bagman and the possible MO link. Connect Slater’s odd behavior to all this and suspicions arise. Phone company records indicate a call was made on Martin’s cell at 4:07 A.M. near the time of death. Over a cell phone, Robin Eastman was a witness to murder. Sean, I did something really stupid.”
“What?”
“I wanted to see how Slater would react when I told him I had found Martin’s girlfriend. He was stone-faced until I said she was on the cell phone with Martin at the time of the murder.”
“How’d he react?”
“I saw a look in his eyes I’d never seen before. Frightening. He composed himself, said stripers are the least believable witnesses because they’re high on drugs. He said the DA may have a hard time if we tried to use Robin Eastman as a witness.”
“Why would Slater kill Tony Martin?”
“I don’t know, but at this point I’m glad the captain let me partner with Dan.”
Leslie’s cell rang. “Speaking of Dan, it’s him. I’d better take it.”
I watched a tiny crab scale a wall of barnacles stuck to a piling. The barnacles are anchored for life but teased twice daily by waters that travel the world’s oceans.
“For the love of God,” I heard Leslie whisper into the phone. “Yes, right away. Is Slater there? Okay, give me a half hour.” She slowly closed the phone. “There’s been another killing.”
“Female?”
“Yes, but this time it’s different. Horrible. The victim was found in a wildlife refuge. She was butchered.”