“The guy on the moped was wanted. He’s spending the night in jail. How about you?”
“The police report of Sykes’s death doesn’t pass the smell test. Look at it.”
He took her laptop and tapped a key. The screen saver vanished, and a police report took over. “What am I looking for?”
She answered him with a snore. He put his beer and the laptop aside, and lifted her legs so she was horizontal. She mumbled thanks without opening her eyes.
He moved to the balcony. If you lived in Florida long enough, anything below seventy degrees felt chilly, and he shivered as he drank his beer and stared at the ocean. Before he bought this place, the real estate agent had shown him the floor plan, and he’d realized that this unit would never have a building erected in front of it. The view was his, and his alone.
He slogged through the police report. Not many cops had taken creative writing classes, and the writing was as dull as dirt. Something about the report had bothered Beth, and he wondered what it was. Perhaps it was the nosy neighbor not hearing the gunshot. That was a red flag, but the neighbor was elderly, and might very well have been hard of hearing. He decided to wait until morning to ask her.
At the report’s end was Sykes’s autopsy. Sykes had ended his life with a gun, which wasn’t surprising. In his experience, most cops chose this route, probably because they’d been around firearms, and knew that it was quick and painless.
At the bottom of the page, the pathologist had signed off. The handwriting was doctor typical, and impossible to decipher. Beneath the signature line, the pathologist’s name was printed in block letters, and he stared at it.
Dr. Peter Matoff.
The name rang a bell. Pulling out his cell phone, he opened up Nicki’s email, and looked at the names in the list of men in Saint Augustine who’d been blackmailed by the Sokolov brothers. The last name caught his eye.
Peter Matoff.
It was an unusual last name, and he didn’t think there was more than one Peter Matoff living in Saint Augustine. Just to be certain, he did a search on Google, and was proven correct by a site called WhitePages. There were nineteen Peter Matoffs living in the United States. Only one lived in Saint Augustine. The man who’d done the autopsy on Sykes was also one of the blackmail victims.
That was a problem. There were sixty-seven different counties in Florida, and each county had its own autopsy protocol. While he didn’t know the exact procedures in Saint Augustine, he felt certain that Matoff wouldn’t conduct an autopsy on a policeman involved in a case where he was a victim.
He stared into the darkness, thinking hard. Sykes had killed himself at home, so the sheriff would have told Matoff that it was Sykes, and not a John Doe. To avoid a conflict, Matoff should have asked for another pathologist to conduct the autopsy.
But Matoff hadn’t done that, and had performed the autopsy himself.
Why?
He went into the kitchen to get another beer. Beth was on the couch, having a bad dream and talking to herself. Upon returning to the living room, he knelt down beside her and whispered in her ear. She stopped twisting and turning, and fell into a deep sleep.
Her handbag lay on the floor. Tucked in a side pocket was Martin’s autopsy report, which Sykes had given to Beth during their visit to his office. Normally, these reports were emailed, which allowed them to be distributed to other people to read. But Sykes had chosen to give Beth a hard copy. It hadn’t felt strange at the time, but it did now.
He returned to the balcony and read Martin Daniels’s autopsy report. Beth had used a yellow magic marker to highlight the gun that Martin had used to kill himself. It was a vintage WWII handgun, which had never made any sense.
He came to the bottom of the report. The pathologist’s name was scribbled and impossible to read. But it was instantly familiar, as was the name printed beneath it.
Dr. Peter Matoff.
Part Six
Wasting Away Again in Margaritaville
Chapter 50
Lancaster waited three days before returning to Saint Augustine. He made the trip alone, Beth having returned to her job in DC. He hadn’t shared his suspicions with her, fearful that he might set off all sorts of false alarms.
He took a prop job into the Jacksonville Airport, rented a car, and drove to Saint Augustine, which took forty-five minutes. He spent the rest of the day driving around the city. The town was swarming with news crews filming stories, and he did his best to avoid them. Bad things happened every day, but when a cop was involved, the media would dig as hard as they could, hoping the story would sprout legs and become a cottage industry, producing true crime books and podcasts. Journalism was a noble profession, but at the end of the day, it was still about the money.
Late in the afternoon, he drove to the sheriff’s office and parked in a visitor’s space. He wasn’t going to win any popularity contests here, but it was a risk that he had to take. He needed to get to the truth, and the Saint Augustine police were the best people to help him accomplish that.
The lobby was quiet, and he smiled at the uniformed receptionist behind the bulletproof glass. She raised a finger for him to wait. A surveillance camera was watching him, and he gazed into its lens, still smiling.
She ended her call. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Jon Lancaster. I’d like to speak with Sheriff Soares,” he said.
“Is he expecting you?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“No appointment?”
He shook his head.
“Sheriff Soares is a very busy man. Please contact his secretary, and schedule one. Have a blessed day.”
She steepled her hands, as if praying for him. He passed a Team Adam business card through the slot, which had the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s logo prominently displayed. A moment passed as she studied it.
“I know who you are,” she said quietly.
Bad news traveled fast. He lowered his voice. “Sheriff Soares needs to hear what I have to say. Would you be so kind as to tell him I’m here?”
“I’ll do that. Have a seat.”
The waiting area had a small couch and three rows of stiff plastic chairs that were screwed to the floor. The clientele had to be pretty rough to nail down the chairs, and he parked himself in one. He watched the receptionist make the call, while silently counting to himself.
After thirty seconds had passed, a door sprang open, and a big hunk wearing a uniform emerged, walking with a limp. It was one of the deputies that he’d roughed up, No Neck, and he rose from his chair. His head barely reached the deputy’s chin.
“You’ve got a lot of flipping nerve, coming here,” the deputy snorted.
“I need to speak with your boss.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“You’d be surprised. How’s the leg?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I’m not the asshole you think I am.”
The deputy chewed on that one. “It’s healing.”
“How are your friends holding up?”
“Not so good. Kenny’s nose is busted in two places, and Bobby Joe’s got three busted ribs. They both got suspended.”
“How did you get so lucky?”
“Sheriff Soares is my uncle.”
“It’s nice to have friends in high places.”
“My uncle’s busy. Come back tomorrow.”
“Will he be here? Or out fishing?”
The deputy hid a grin. “Come back tomorrow, and find out.”
“Tell your uncle that I need to speak with him about Sykes.”
“My uncle doesn’t want to talk with you. Can I make myself any clearer?”
“I found something.”