Detective Dan Grant said, “I tried to reach you earlier.”
“You didn’t leave a message.”
“I usually don’t. I wanted to let you know that I’m not sure how the media got wind of the DNA sampling of you, Andrea Logan, and the fact that we’re searching for a sample from Courtney Burke.”
I said nothing. Dave set the bowl of food and a Corona on the marine coffee table in front of me, lifting Max up and carrying her to the bar with him.
Dan said, “The chain of evidence leaves me and goes through a number of people, Sean, including lab techs. You know that. Maybe someone read my report and was looking to make some money by selling the story to the media.”
“That’s inexcusable, Dan. The perp should be found, fired and prosecuted. The leak to the media is placing lives in danger, especially the life of Courtney Burke, the woman the media are all labeling a suspected serial killer.”
“My apologies, Sean, okay? This has never happened in the department before now. It’s only because of this unbelievable media coverage; someone got greedy.”
“And dangerous.”
“Speaking of danger, there was a report of a fight in the parking lot of the Lone Wolf Saloon, a hangout for the Outlaws and other biker types with about the same criminal IQ qualifications. The owner said someone assaulted a customer, no, he beat the living shit out of him. And then pinned him to a wooden deck with an icepick through the hand. Sounds like an eye-for-an-eye kind of retribution. And that wasn’t easy to do since they report the victim is six-six, two-ninety-five. Witnesses describe the perpetrator as a man with a resemblance to you. Whoever this guy was, he blew up the vic’s custom motorcycle, a bike some would kill for.”
“Is the vic pressing charges?”
“No, but if he does, do you have an alibi for your time?”
“I was visiting with Carlos Bandini. You can ask him.”
“Hey, Sean, let’s get something straight. Because you were once a cop, the fact that we have a past together on that psycho federal agent case, I grant you slack and some professional leeway. But you don’t have nine lives. Your law of averages is expiring, pal. And now you have all this shit with your former girlfriend — the wife of a presidential contender … and maybe a biological tie to a girl who could be your daughter. Every man has his breaking point.”
“Can you run a phone number through your system?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Hearing and listening aren’t the same. What’s the number?”
I told him and said, “The area code, eight-one-three, covers Tampa and the surrounding area. Can you pinpoint it with a location, or a name?”
“It depends. People are using everything from throw-away phones to Internet phones. It’s not as easy as it used to be when they had to always go through a carrier. I’ll call you back.”
46
Within twenty minutes, rain began falling across the marina, an Atlantic storm moving in from the west. Lightning illuminated the marina for a second, the crack of thunder almost immediate. Nick sauntered from the couch to a side window on St. Michael. He said, “Maybe the rains will wash away the reporters. Looks like most of them are splitting. Lightning has a way of doing that.”
Dave chuckled. “They’ll be back.”
I finished the plate of seafood and felt the knots between my shoulder blades begin to loosen a little. For a second, I thought of Kim Davis, her smile as I walked her in the rain to her car the other night. I sipped the Corona and said, “There are a couple of things I didn’t mention.”
Nick returned to the couch, Max following him. He attempted a smile and said, “Don’t hold back now.”
Dave nodded. “Tell us you found a DNA sample from Courtney.”
“I wish, primarily for her sake, and Andrea’s too.”
“Unless she’s your daughter, and this begins a whole new chapter that will make political history books.” Dave swirled the vodka around the ice in the glass.
“Two guys, maybe federal agents, I don’t know for sure, but they weren’t connected to Bandini. They’d been following me for miles until I had breakfast at Denny’s where a server accidently spilled ice cold soda in their laps.”
Dave said, “Serendipitous, no doubt. They probably weren’t federal agents, although Senator Logan has been assigned Secret Service protection. Logan and the Democrat’s candidate, Governor Les Connors, are raising tens of millions of dollars from the Super Pacs, donors who have anonymity and thus no responsibility. Analogous to the lack of culpability that one might find in the collective mentality of a lynch mob. Nevertheless, there is so much concealed money going into these campaigns, what’s a few hundred thou to hire mercenaries? It’s the cost of doing business in an election method where the vote, the majority will of the people, doesn’t always translate into a win.”
“That’s essentially what Andrea Logan told me earlier on the phone.”
Nick’s dark eyebrows arched. “Your old girlfriend has your number?”
“Yes.” I looked over to Dave. “And she believes Courtney might never surface if her husband’s closest advisors can prevent it. She overheard a conversation to that effect, and she’s terrified.”
Dave folded his brown arms over his thick chest. He leaned back on the stool and said, “So a presidential candidate could be complicit in a murder on his way to the White House. His wife is indeed terrified for a lot of reasons, perhaps first is the real possibility that the young woman whose life is in danger may be her daughter.”
I told them about my call to the person who answered the number I’d memorized from Isaac Solminski’s call history. “What intrigues me is not so much what he said, but what he didn’t say and how he phrased some things.”
“What do you mean?” Dave asked.
He said, ‘Although we have no one here by that name, if someone arrives with the name, Courtney, what message would you like for me to give to her?’ That sounds like he’s working in a hotel or a motel.”
Nick said, “That narrows it down.”
I said nothing, watching the rain against the salon window. My phone rang. Dan Grant said, “Sean, I have an approximate match for you on the number.”
“What is it?”
“It pinged off a cell tower near a small town south of Tampa called Gibsonton. It’s tied to an apparent fictitious name, Showtime Estates, associated with a post office box. You think the girl is somehow connected to wherever this number leads?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From Isaac Solminski, the dwarf at Bandini’s carnival.”
“Why’d he give it to you?”
“He didn’t actually provide it. I happened to see it in his call history.”
I heard Dan release a long exhale. “Gibsonton or Gibtown, from what I remember, is or was the winter home for circus and carnival people. An odd place off the Tamiami Trail. Maybe Solminski’s just touching base with old friends or a family member.”
“Could be.”
“Sounds like a long-shot to me, especially when we don’t have a physical address, no location.”
“You’re probably right.”
He was hesitant for a few seconds. “Be careful, Sean, remember what I told you about those nine lives. I personally believe you’ve used up eight and are working overtime on number nine. Talk to you.” He disconnected.
“Nick, where’s your laptop?”
“Right here.” He reached beneath the coffee table, under a stack of boating and cooking magazines, pulled out a MacBook Pro, turned it on, then handed it to me,
Dave said, “You sounded a little more civil with your detective friend. Did he come through after the DNA debacle?”