“Last question,” Lancaster said. “Does your grandson own a gun?”
“He owns several,” the old man said.
They walked single file down the driveway to the back, hugging the side of the house in case Arlen showed his face. Inside, the old woman had started shouting.
“She’s got some pair of lungs,” Beth said.
Behind the house was a red shingle barn that had been converted into a garage. It had a hippie feel, and was plastered with peace signs and counterculture bumper stickers. The garage door was up, and reggae music was playing at full blast. They waited to see if the shouting would draw Arlen out. Confronting him in the backyard would have been easier than entering the garage, where he would have an advantage.
They waited a minute, but he did not appear. Lancaster read each of the bumper stickers while they waited. One of them looked familiar, having once adorned his own car. It said FINS UP, and showed a shark’s dorsal fin cutting through the water.
“I smell weed,” Beth said. “He must be in there getting stoned.”
“I think we should sneak up, take him by surprise,” Erce suggested.
“There’s a security camera on the side of the barn,” Lancaster said. “If he’s watching it, we’re going to get shot.”
“You have a better idea?” Erce said.
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“You going to waltz in there, say hi? That’s a real good way to get ambushed.”
“He’s a Parrot Head. So am I. I’m sure we have a lot in common.”
“Like what?”
“We listen to the same music.”
Lancaster removed his helmet and bulletproof vest and laid them on the ground. He carried a Glock pocket rocket in an ankle holster, which he removed and tucked in the back of his pants, cinching his belt an extra notch so it wouldn’t fall out. Phillips was looking at him like he’d lost his mind, as was the rest of his team.
“Jon was a SEAL,” Beth said. “He can handle himself.”
Phillips’s look of disbelief grew. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” he said.
Lancaster started toward the garage. He moved slowly, not wanting to alarm Arlen if he was watching on a monitor. Law enforcement often acted like paramilitary organizations when dealing with suspected criminals. In his opinion, this was a bad thing, as too many innocent people were getting shot. Talking still worked, especially when dealing with people who smoked weed and listened to Jimmy Buffett.
After getting out of the navy, he’d camped out in Key West for a while, and tried to get his feet under him. A local barkeep had introduced him to the music of Jimmy Buffett, and he’d been a fan ever since, and even joined the Parrot Head Fan Club, or PHIP as its members called it. Parrot Heads drank rum and wore loud shirts and traded bootleg tapes from concerts. They were the most laid-back group of people he’d ever known, and he hoped Arlen Childress was no different.
If not, then he’d just have to shoot the bastard.
He stuck his head into the open garage. The interior was lit by a half dozen skylights. It consisted of one giant room divided by living room furniture, a dining room table, and a flat screen TV on a wall. Several towering pot plants took up a corner, and there were buds on the dining room table, being cleaned. He’d smoked dope once as a teen, and then slept for twenty hours straight. That had cured him.
“Anybody home?”
“That’s far enough,” a voice said.
The voice came from the right. A tall, sinewy guy with shoulder-length hair and bloodshot eyes stood against the wall, armed with a hunting rifle. He was in his underwear, and had a blanket draped over his shoulders.
“Arlen Childress? My name’s Jon Lancaster. Can we talk?”
“Get the fuck out of here, and take your friends with you.”
“I’m a private investigator. I just need to ask you some questions.”
“Bullshit. If all you wanted to do was talk, why did you bring an army with you? I’m going to count to five, and if you’re not gone, I’m going to shoot you dead.”
“My friends will storm this garage if you do that, and it won’t end well. Come on, there’s no need for bloodshed.”
“Then why did you put a gun in your pants? There’s a security camera on the side of the house — I saw the whole thing. One.”
“What do you think, that we’re here to rob you?”
“Why else would you be here? I’ve got a license to grow pot, and half the scumbags in this town want to rip me off. Two.”
“Is that why you tore down the street sign?”
“Boy, you’re smart. Three.”
“We’re not here to steal your dope. You’re a suspect in a home invasion. Those people outside are FBI agents, and I’m an ex-cop working this case.”
“I don’t believe you. Four.”
“I convinced my friends not to storm the garage because I saw the Jimmy Buffett bumper sticker on the wall outside, and figured you were a Parrot Head — and a good guy. Please don’t prove me wrong about this.”
Arlen scrunched his face, thinking hard. He didn’t want to shoot his visitor any more than Lancaster wanted to shoot him. He pointed the rifle’s barrel at the floor.
“You’re really a Parrot Head?” he asked.
“Until the day I die,” Lancaster said.
“In the song ‘My Lovely Lady,’ what does she like to eat?”
“Her weight in crab meat.”
“What song is this from: ‘Nothing can tear you apart if you keep living straight from the heart’?”
“‘Bring Back the Magic.’ It’s a duet Buffett sang with Rita Coolidge.”
“Finish this line. ‘Classy little white and red...’”
“...‘turns everybody’s head.’”
“You pass. How about some ID?”
Lancaster produced his wallet and showed Arlen his detective’s badge. Then he pulled out a business card and, for good measure, his worn PHIP membership card.
“Put them on the dining room table, and step back,” Arlen said.
He did as told. Arlen picked up his ID and had a look. He still wasn’t sold, and Lancaster didn’t know if it was the pot, or if he was just naturally suspicious.
“Tell one of your friends outside to hold up their badge,” his host said.
“You got it.”
Lancaster walked backward, not taking his eyes off Arlen, or his rifle. Turning his head, he said, “Beth, please take out your badge, and hold it so the monitor on the side of the building will see it.”
“What?” Daniels said in a loud voice.
“Just do it. Please.”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine and dandy.”
Beth struggled to remove her badge from beneath the bulletproof vest. Finally she pulled it free and held it up to the building. Arlen moved over to a desk where a laptop computer sat and studied the screen. His expression changed, and he put the rifle into a gun cabinet and then opened a small refrigerator.
“My mistake,” he said. “Tell your friends to come on in. You want something cold to drink?”
Chapter 11
The pot plants were a problem. There were seven of them, and that was over the legal limit for medicinal purposes in Florida. Special Agent Phillips was legally required to arrest Arlen for the plants. If Phillips did that, Arlen would ask for a lawyer and clam up, and they would be no closer to learning why two Russian gangsters had broken into Martin’s house, and used Arlen’s Charger as a getaway car.
They sat at the dining room table, hashing it out. Arlen had served up iced tea and bottled water and was smoking a joint to calm down. He had PTSD from a tour of Iraq he’d done while in the army, and was prone to recurring flashbacks.