“That’s correct.”
“Any clout with the judge?”
“Maybe.” Pete looked at Donnie Armano, who took the handoff and said, “We’re still digging around and might have found something. Judge Salazar has a son in Jacksonville, married with two kids, her only grandkids at the moment. Got a daughter in Pensacola. The son owns a little company that builds cheap government houses and apartments. He does okay but he ain’t getting rich by any means. We can approach him one of two ways, straight-up or behind the back. Straight-up we go through a shell company and get the kid some nicer houses in better parts of town, make sure he’s busy and getting paid. We’ll eventually dangle the carrot, let him know that he might strike gold in the boom on Panther Cay. Or, we can get him a big contract for subsidized apartments, riches galore, but first he has to bribe a federal inspector.”
Wilson wasn’t bothered by either plan. “Let’s start off by giving the boy some business and see how it goes, nothing out of line, nothing to arouse suspicions. God knows we have enough companies to hide behind.”
“Sixty at last count,” Pete said with a grin.
“And I can think of three in the Jacksonville area. Get him sucked in for now and let’s see how it goes. As usual, I’d like to keep the Feds out of it.”
“Please do,” Pete said.
“What about the rest of her family? The judge?”
“Single, divorced a long time ago. Sort of estranged from the daughter in Pensacola, all wrapped up in the two grandkids.”
“How about previous rulings in title cases?”
“We’ve found only one, a few years back. Nothing helpful. She’s been on the bench for six years so there’s not much of a record.”
“Okay,” Wilson said, sticking his pen in a pocket, his way of saying enough of this. “We’ll review it again next week.”
2
October was Mercer’s favorite month on the island. The suffocating summer heat was gone, as were the tourists, though they seldom got in the way. The beach, ten miles long and rarely crowded, was even more deserted. She loved the long slow walks in the cool mornings. She missed Thomas, but not that much.
About half the beachfront houses were lived in year-round, and she often saw familiar faces as she walked. She even recognized some of the dogs, a friendly bunch as a rule. Stopping for a quick hello and a chat about the weather was not unusual, but Mercer did not want long conversations in the sand. She was there for a purpose, a walk to clear her head and, occasionally, give her inspiration. A story, a name, a place, perhaps even a subplot. As a writer she was always on the prowl for material, which had been sparse lately. Nor did she want to get close to her neighbors, most of whom were retired and usually eager to drop whatever they were doing for some gossip or maybe even a glass of wine. She wasn’t looking for new friends. Her cottage, one that she owned with her sister, was a second home, a getaway and a refuge where she craved quietness and solitude.
But the damned thing was also becoming expensive. Upkeep on a house at the beach was never-ending. Thomas wasn’t much with a hammer or a paintbrush, nor was Connie’s sorry husband. So the two owners split the costs of all repairs and renovations, and the bills were getting bigger. They had never discussed the idea of selling it, though Connie had dropped a few hints. Her husband rarely came to the beach and her family was using the cottage less and less. It had been built by Tessa fifty years earlier and meant far more to Mercer than to Connie.
Fifty years of salt air and storms were eating away at the wood, tiles, and paint.
Mercer was on the back porch, ignoring the blank screen of her laptop, sipping green tea, and instead of writing she was staring at the ocean and listening to the waves, her favorite sound. In October she left the windows open at night and fell asleep to the sounds of the sea. The happiest moments of her childhood had been at the cottage with Tessa, who regardless of the heat didn’t like air-conditioning. When the humidity was down, Tessa opened all the windows and they listened to the waves in the dark as they talked in bed.
Once again, a memory of Tessa came and went. She smiled, tried to shake it off, and looked at the blank screen. She had written the first chapter twice and tossed both drafts. She needed more time with Lovely, whom she would meet with tomorrow, at Bay Books, of course.
The paint was peeling. Everywhere she looked around the porch, the deck, the doors and windows, even the pine flooring, there was old paint either peeling or fading. Larry, her part-time landscaper and handyman, got an estimate from a lower-end painting contractor. The thief wanted $20,000 to repaint and seal the exterior, but Larry said that was about right. Mercer had to giggle at the thought of asking Thomas for his entire check from The Atlantic to spruce up the beach cottage. She thought of her sister and the smile went away. Not too many years ago Connie and her husband were flying high with his company and buying whatever they wanted. Then something happened. Mercer had no idea what, and she would never know because Connie would never tell, but the business wasn’t booming anymore and they were tightening their belts. The sisters had never been close and it was too late to make the effort now.
She forgot about her laptop, and her unwritten manuscript, and walked around the cottage. A fresh coat of paint was desperately needed, so she made a decision. A firm one. An unpopular one. She and Thomas would spend their Christmas break on Camino painting the cottage. If he couldn’t figure out a paintbrush and a roller, then she would be more than happy to give lessons.
Her phone was ringing on the porch. She was expecting a call from Thomas but instead got one from Bruce Cable. “Hello, dear,” he began in his usual hyper, chipper way. “When did you get on the island?”
“Yesterday, Bruce, and how are you?”
“Swell. Books are selling. Someone saw your car in the driveway. Guess you drove down.”
She was always amazed at how little he missed on the island. He had spies everywhere. “Yes, got in last night.”
“How’s Thomas?”
“He’s not here.”
“Left him already?”
“He’s in Australia these days, on assignment for The Atlantic.”
“Awesome. Finally got the boy to work. Look, Noelle’s up for a light dinner, on the early side. Just the three of us. Catch up on the gossip, you know.”
“I’m sorry, Bruce, but I’m tucking in. Got a good book. Give me a rain check.”
A long pause on the other end, because no one said no to dinner with Bruce and Noelle. “Okay. Fair enough. See you tomorrow.”
3
The following morning at ten, the team gathered at Bay Books and enjoyed doughnuts and coffee in Bruce’s office. Lovely was adorned in her usual African splendor — an orange robe, matching turban, with an assortment of bangles and baubles rattling whenever she took a sip of coffee. As always, Miss Naomi was by her side. Steven Mahon flipped through paperwork as they listened to Bruce talk about an upcoming autograph party for a hot new mystery writer. After a few minutes of greetings and chitchat, Bruce left his office and closed the door.
Steven held a document and said, “This is fairly straightforward.” He looked at Lovely. “It’s called a ‘collaboration agreement’ between you and Mercer that gives her and her publisher the exclusive right to your story. For your cooperation you are to receive twenty-five percent of the total advance, minus the agent’s commission.”
Lovely smiled and said, “I’ve read it. Looks good to me. When do I get a check?”
Mercer smiled and slid another document across the table to Steven, who examined it and removed a check. “Right now. The contract with Viking provides one hundred thousand dollars upon signing, which Mercer has already done, and one hundred thousand upon delivery of the manuscript, which I understand has not been done.”