In a twisted way it made sense. I’d show them. The cops, the FBI, the whole world. I didn’t do it, didn’t kill anyone – well, except that one murderer up North.
So about a day later I rumbled my clunker over the Okeechobee Bridge into Palm Beach. I parked across from the Brazilian Court. I sat staring at the yellow-hued building, smelling the breeze off the gardens, realizing I’d come to the end of my journey – right where it all had started.
I closed my eyes, hoping some karmic wisdom would hit me about exactly what to do next.
And when I opened my eyes, I saw my sign.
There was Ellie Shurtleff coming out the front door.
Chapter 48
THERE WERE A couple of ways she could play it, Ellie decided.
Turn what she had found over to Moretti and let him handle it. After all, the Tess McAuliffe homicide wasn’t even their case. Or toss it in the lap of the Palm Beach PD. But Ellie had already seen the star treatment Stratton seemed to get from them.
Or she could do what every cell in her body was crying out to do.
Take it a step forward. Just one or two more steps… What could that hurt?
She had the assistant she shared at the office print a photo of Stratton from the Internet and jammed it in her purse. She left word for Moretti that she was headed out for a few hours.
Then Ellie climbed in her office Crown Vic and headed up the highway, back to Palm Beach.
She knew Moretti would have a coronary, and a smile crossed Ellie’s lips: Fuck the art!
Crossing over the bridge on Okeechobee, she headed for the Brazilian Court. It was a whole lot quieter now than a few days before.
Ellie went into the lobby. An attractive blond guy was behind the reception desk. Ellie flashed the FBI badge hanging loosely around her neck. She showed the man Dennis Stratton’s picture. “Any chance you’ve seen this person around here?”
The desk clerk studied it for a second and then shrugged no. He showed it to a colleague. She shook her head. “Maybe you want to show it to Simon. He works nights.”
Ellie flashed the photo around to the door staff and then the restaurant manager. She showed it to a couple of waiters. Everybody shook his head, no. It was a long shot, Ellie reminded herself. Maybe she’d come back at night and try Simon.
“Hey, I know that dude,” one of the room-service waiters said. She’d found him in the kitchen. His eyes lit up as soon as he saw the face. “That’s Ms. McAuliffe’s friend.”
Ellie blinked. “You’re sure?”
“Sure I’m sure,” the waiter, Jorge, exclaimed. “He comes around here every once in a while. Good tipper. Gave me twenty bucks to pop a bottle of champagne.”
“You’re saying they were friends?” Ellie asked, feeling her pulse come alive.
“You could call them friends.” Jorge tossed a smile. “Like, I gotta learn how to get me some friends like that, too. Hard to figure, short bald dude with someone who looked like that. Gotta figure he had bucks, right?”
“Yeah.” Ellie nodded. “Lotta bucks, Jorge.”
Chapter 49
I TURNED THE IMPALA into a half-full lot on Military Trail south of Okeechobee. Next to Vern’s Tank and Tummy and Seminole Pawn, a long way from the mansions on the beach.
The place looked more like some run-down shipping office or one of those whitewashed stucco huts that housed seedy, ambulance-chasing lawyers. Only the handful of retuned Vespas on the sidewalk and the cracked Yamaha sign in the window gave it away.
Geoff’s Cycles. NATIONAL MINI RACING CHAMPION. 1998.
I parked the car and stepped inside. No one at the counter. I heard the sound of an engine being revved in the back. I wedged through shelves of helmet boxes into the garage. I saw a half-finished bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale on the floor and pair of beat-up Addidases sticking out from under a gleaming Ducati 999. The engine revved again.
I kicked the sneakers. “That thing run like an old lady having a coughing fit, or does it just sound like one?”
An oily face wheeled out from under the blocks. Close-cropped orange hair and a fuzzy smile. “Dunno, mate. Guess that depends on how fast the old bag can run.”
Then his eyes bulged as wide as if I’d crawled out of a crypt in Dawn of the Dead. “Holy Shit, Ned!”
Geoff Hunter dropped the wrench and hopped to his feet. “It is you, Ned. Not some body double for Andrew Cunanan?’
“It’s me,” I said, taking a step forward. “Whatever’s left.”
“Mate, I’d like to say you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Geoff said, shaking his head, “but, frankly, I was hoping you were a whole lot farther away from this sorry-assed place than here.” He wrapped his greasy, oil-stained arms around my back.
Champ was a Kiwi, who’d been on the world minicycle racing tour for several years. Once, he even held the tour speed record. After a bout or two with Jack – Daniel’s – and a sticky divorce, he ended up performing motorcycle stunts in cycle shows, like jumping over cars and through hoops of fire. I’d met him working the bar at Bradley’s. You put anything crazy enough in front of him and chased it with a beer, Champ was in!
He went over to a minifridge and opened a Pete’s for me. Then he sat on the fridge. “I figure you’re not here for the brew, now, are you, mate?”
I shook my head. “I’m in deep shit, Geoff.”
He snorted. “You think just ’cause my brain’s half fried and I’m drunk the other half of the time, I can’t read the papers, Ned? Well, that might be true – but I can turn on the TV.”
“You know I didn’t do any of that stuff, Champ.” I looked him in the eye.
“You’re preaching to the choir, mate. You think anyone who actually knows you believes you’re going around the country, killing every bloke you meet? It’s the rest of the world I’d be worried about. I was sorry about those friends of yours, Ned, and your brother. Just what kind of mess are you in?”
“The kind that needs help, Geoff. Lots of it.”
He shrugged. “You can’t be aiming very high if you’re coming to me.”
“I guess I’m coming” – I swallowed – “to the only place I can.”
Geoff winked, and tipped his beer toward me. “Been there,” he said, nodding. “It’s a long straight shot down from number one, ’specially when you can’t see straight in the morning, not to mention trying to drive it, taking spoon curves at one hundred eighty miles an hour. I don’t have much cash, mate, sorry. But I know how to get you out of here, if that’s what you need. Know these boats that sneak in past the Coast Guard down the coast a bit, whatever the hell they’re carrying. Guess they go back out as well. I bet Costa Rica sounds good about now, right?”
I shook my head. “I’m not trying to leave, Geoff. I want to prove I didn’t do these things. I want to find out who did.”
“I see…You and which army, mate?”
“I figure it’s that, or kill myself,” I said.
“Been there, too.” Geoff rubbed an oily hand over his orange hair. “Shit, seems I’m perfectly qualified to lend a hand after all. That, and I’m a sucker for a lost cause. But you know that, don’t you, Neddie-boy? That’s why you’re here.”
“That,” I said, “and no other place to go.”
“Flattered.” Champ took another swig of beer. “You know, of course, I get caught just in the general zip code with you, I could risk everything here. My business, the comeback.”
He got up and limped over to a sink, looking as if he had crawled out of a scrum after two hours of rugby. He washed the grease off his hands and face. “Oh, screw the comeback, mate… But we oughta get one thing straight before I commit.”