“Funny isn’t it? I was just wondering the same about Mick O’Neill.”
She went quiet, concentrating on her cigarette. I knew she was thinking hard on how much she could trust me to keep my mouth shut.
“O’Neill was responsible for murdering William Murray; I think he was also behind Candice’s murder. But I need validation, Sheridan.” I waited, hoping my words were enough to prompt her. But she surprised me yet again. She hopped off her desk and walked back and forth, one arm across her chest, the other hand holding her cigarette an inch from her mouth. Then coming to a conclusion, she nodded at the door.
“I think it’s best that you leave, Joe.”
“A minute longer, that’s all I need.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you.”
She was afraid and it was understandable. She didn’t want to end up in an alleyway with a slug in the back of her head the way Candice had.
“So don’t say a thing, other than tell me if I’m on the wrong track, and then I’ll be out of here. No one will hear your name from me, OK?”
She halted in her pacing. Her chest rose and fell a few times before she resigned herself and sat back against the desk.
“Candice saw or heard something she wasn’t meant to. Am I right?”
Sheridan’s silence told it all.
“Maybe she overheard Whalen or one of his boys bragging about what happened to William Murray?”
She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“But Whalen does know, yeah?”
Her mouth pinched around the cigarette butt.
“Whalen was at O’Neill’s place when Murray supposedly jumped from the roof?”
She took out the cigarette and blue smoke wreathed her features. “I didn’t say that.”
“Hang on,” I said, “are you telling me that Candice was at O’Neill’s penthouse, too? With Whalen?”
“I’m not telling you anything of the sort,” Sheridan said. “All I’m saying is that William Murray was a nice guy. Candice was a nice girl. You understand what I am saying?”
I did.
I stood up.
“Did Candice mention what O’Neill was so pissed at her boyfriend for?”
“Not to me,” she said.
“OK, last question and then you’ll be rid of me: was Whalen the one who took Candice on a drive to Palmetto Beach?”
“I’m going to admit that, am I? Don’t forget who owns this building, and who owns me for that matter. If anything happens to Whalen, then that’s my livelihood down the can.”
“Not necessarily. See the thing is, these criminals do certain things through the books to make their businesses appear aboveboard and legal. I can guarantee you that the lease you signed on this place, it will still stand whomever your next landlord is. Plus, the next person to own the building might not take so much off you to turn a blind eye.”
“Better the devil you know…” Sheridan was thinking hard, and I could see that the sadness had gone from her gaze, now replaced with something much harder.
“So Whalen is a devil, then?”
“Put it this way,” she said. “Whalen’s boys turned up to collect his usual take of the profit and Candice was standing outside handing out flyers. Then they were gone and so was Candice.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
We said our goodbyes and then I saw myself out. I passed the Seminole beauty, who was sitting at the front counter, and she batted her eyelashes at me. “How was everything, Mr. Hunter?” she said teasingly. “Did Sheridan look after you? Maybe you’ll come back, yes? When the boss isn’t in next time?”
I chuckled. “My relationship with Sheridan is strictly professional.”
“Sheridan’s not the only pro you’ll find here,” she assured me.
“You are shameless,” I told her with a grin.
“I am,” she replied with a wink.
I headed for the exit door, grinning like a mad thing, but the expression was wiped off my face as the little bell tinkled above the door and in stepped Detectives Holker and VanMeter.
“Now why doesn’t it surprise me to find you here?” demanded Holker.
“Old war wound,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “The hot stone treatment works wonders for me.”
I caught a disapproving glance from VanMeter, as if it pained her to find me in an establishment like this. I thought that maybe it was wishful thinking, but then her next glance went to the Seminole woman and it was definitely one of the green-eyed variety. She knew that we’d been flirting like crazy and that annoyed her as much as my being there at all.
“You should get your head massaged,” VanMeter suggested. “Maybe it’ll allow some good advice to sink in. Stay away from our investigation, Joe.”
Despite how official she made it sound, I knew she was giving me a friendly warning. VanMeter was one of those cops who actually appreciated the fact I was around.
“If I find you interfering in our investigation again, I’ll make sure you go in on a charge,” Holker added.
“I was just offering my condolences to a mutual friend of Candice Berry,” I said, more for Holker’s sake than anyone. “There’s no law against that, is there, Detective Holker?”
“Just get outta here, goddamnit,” Holker snarled.
I was about to say something to knock the jumped up little shit down a peg or two, but the Seminole woman got in before me. Obviously she’d been listening keenly to our conversation, and taking names.
“Detective Holker, it’s so good to see you again so soon. Are you here for your usual, or is there something ‘special’ you wish to try this time?”
Holker practically spluttered, and I caught an amused glint in VanMeter’s eye.
I went out of the door and my grin was back in place.
It was short-lived, though, because as soon as I was on the street — the very place from where Candice Berry was taken — my mind was back on Marvin Whalen and Mick O’Neill.
Marvin Whalen would have people believe he’d earned his nickname for his prodigious manhood, but he was having a laugh. He’d gained the moniker “Moby Dick” because he was huge, blubber-fat, and white as snow, like Captain Ahab’s aquatic nemesis. Even under the Floridian sun, he had the sort of complexion that didn’t tan. His short hair, a pale reddish color, was wispy, and he’d either had his eyebrows and lashes burned off in a barbecuing accident or he was naturally hairless. To be honest, his wasn’t the kind of physique I had any desire to imagine nude.
He walked across the street in front of where I’d parked my car, flanked on both sides by two whip-thin Hispanics, his huge belly bouncing with each ponderous step. He was wearing a pale blue shirt that both me and my friend Rink could have fitted inside, and Rink’s built like a pro wrestler. He was also wearing cargo pants, big pockets on the side, and huge white sneakers that glowed ethereally under the street lamps. He didn’t appear to be carrying, but I guessed his homeboys were. As well as baggy jeans and white wife beaters, they had suit jackets on, and as hot as the night was, there was only one reason they’d do so: to conceal the guns in their shoulder rigs.
I made myself a bet that the Hispanic dudes were the same guys who’d lifted Candice Berry off the street outside Sheridan’s Parlor. The gun used to murder her would have been dumped soon afterward, but I also wagered it had been replaced by a new one. Whalen’s crew were into good old fashioned intimidation to extract protection money, and I doubted either of the chumps with Whalen could frighten a little girl without waving a gun under her nose.
Whalen led the way to his crib, a loft apartment over a Thai restaurant. When I’d cased his building earlier I’d grabbed myself a take-out snack of shrimps and noodles, and a large black coffee in a waxed cup. The greasy boxes and empty cup lay in the passenger foot well of my Audi. I’d had a long wait before Whalen returned home, still I guessed my ass wasn’t as chafed as his, judging by the way his cargo pants rode up with every knock-kneed stride he took.